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THE COMPLETE 



Poetical Works 



OF 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 



WITH NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS. 







BOSTON: 

JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY, 

Late Tickuob k Fields, and Fields, Osgood & Co. 

1876. 






Copyright, 1848, 1849, 1855, 185S, 1863, 1865, 1866, 1867, 1868, 1869, 1871, 1872, 1873, 1874, 1875, and 187( 
By HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 



John F. Trow & Son, 

PRINTERS AND BOOKBINDERS, 

205-213 East 12th St., 

NEW TORK. 



CONTENTS 



Voices of the Xiottt. pack 

Prelude 11 

Hvnin to the Night ' 12 

A. Psalm of Life 12 

er and the Flowers 13 

The Light of Stars 13 

: stops of Angels ] o 

Flowers 14 

The Beleaguered City 15 

Midnight Mass for the Dying Year 15 

Earlier Pokms. 

An April Day 16 

Autumn 16 

"Woo Is in Winter 16 

Hymn of the Moravian Nuns of Beth- 
lehem 17 

Sunrise on the Hills IT 

The Spirit of Poetry IS 

Burial of the Minnisink IS 

* 
r&AHSLATIONS 

Coplas de M antique 19 

The Good Shepherd 22 

morrow 23 

The Native Land 23 

Image of God 23 

The Brook 23 

The Celestial Pilot 23 

T I Paradise ~4 

Beatrice 24 

- ring 24 

The Child Asleep 24 

Th. 25 

King' Christian 25 

Th • Happiest Land 26 

The Wave 

The Dea.i 26 

Tr.e Bird and the Ship 26 

Whither? 27 

rare ! 27 

- .irof the Bell 27 

the Sea 27 

The Black Knight 28 I 

B _' of the Silent Land 

L Envoi 2^ 

Ballads and other Poem-. 

Th- i Armor 20 

The Wreck of the Hesperus 31 

The Luck of Edenhall 

The Elected Knight 



Mis* i:i,i. LNEOUS. page 

The Goblet of Life 40 

Maidenhood 40 

ilsior 42 

Poems on Slavery. 

To William E. Channing 42 

The Slave's Dream 42 

The Good Part '".hat shall not be taken 

away -)■) 

The Slave in the Dismal Swamp 43 

The Slave singing at Midnight 44 

The Witnesses 44 

The Quadroon Girl 44 

The Warning 4"> 

The Spanish Student 45 

The Belfry of Bruges and other Poems. 

Carillon 63 

The Belfry of Bruges 64 

Miscellaneous. 



Songs 



A Gleam of Sunshine 

The Arsenal at Springfield 

Nuremberg 


. . . . 65 

... 66 

66 


The Norman Baron 

Rain in Summer 


... 67 

. ... 67 


To a Child 


. . . 68 




. . . 69 


The Bridge 


... TD 


To the Driving Cloud 


.... 70 
... 71 


The Day is done 


.... 71 


Afternoon in February 

To an Old Danish Song-Book 

Walter von der Vogelweid 


.... 7-2 

'.'.'.'. 73 
... 7:5 


The Old Clock on the Stairs 

The Arrow and the Song 

~ts. 

The Evening Star 


. . . 7:> 
... 74 

... 74 

... 71 


Dante 


. . . . 74 



Translations. 



Tnr. Children of the Lord's Bp ff f eb . 



The Village Blacksmith. 

Endvmion 

t Hair 

Hay. . . . 
The Rainy Day....'. 



Blind Bartimeus 






The Hemlock Tree. 

Annie of Tharaw 

The Statue over th< l al Door. 

The Legend of the Crossbill 

h its Pearls 

Poetic Aphorisms 



Curfew 

Evangeline A Tale of A.cadis. 

ThbSbasIDB \nd tih: Fike-ii.e. 

Dedication 



77 






CONTENTS. 



The Seaside and the Fireside, age 

By the Seaside. 

The Building of the Ship 100 

Chrysaor 104 

The Secret of the Sea 105 

Twilight 105 

Sir Humphrey Gilbert 105 

The Lighthouse 106 

The Fire of Drif t-Wood 106 

By the Fireside. 

Resignation 107 

The Builders 107 

Sand of the Desert in an Hour-Glass . . 107 

Birds of Passage 108 

The Open Window 109 

King Witlaf s Drinking-Horn 109 

Gaspar Becerra 109 

Pegasus in Pound 1 C9 

Tegner's Drapa 110 

Sonnet 110 

The Singers 110 

Suspiria Ill 

Hymn Ill 

The Blind Girl of Castel-Cuille Ill 

A Christmas Carol 114 

The Song of Hiawatha. 

Introduction 115 

i. The Peace-Pipe 116 

II. The Four Winds 117 

III. Hiawatha's Childhood 119 

IV. Hiawatha and Mudjekeewis 121 

V. Hiawatha's Fasting 123 

VI. Hiawatha's Friends 125 

Vii. Hiawatha's Sailing 126 

III. Hiawatha's Fishing 127 

IX. Hiawatha and the Pearl Feather. . 129 

X. Hiawatha's Wooing 131 

XL Hiawatha's Wedding-Feast 132 

XII. The Son of the Evening Star 134 

Xiii. Blessing the Cornfields 136 

Xiv. Picture-Writing 138 

xv. Hiawatha's Lamentation 139 

xvi. Pau-Puk-Keewis 141 

XVII. The Hunting of Pau-Puk-Keewis . 142 

Vin. The Death of Kwasind 145 

Xix. The Ghosts 146 

XX. The Famine 147 

XXI. The White Man's Foot 149 

xxii. Hiawatha's Departure 150 

The Courtship of Miles Standish 

I. Miles Standish 152 

II. Love and Friendship . . . . : 153 

in. The Lover's Errand 155 

~> IV. JohnAlden > 157 

v. The Sailing of the May Flower 158 

'y>Yi. Priscilla 160 

VII. The March of Miles Standish 162 

~?i -' Vin. The Spinning-Wheel 163 

. ix. The Wedding-Day 165 

Birds of Passage. 

Flight the First. 

Prometheus, or the Poet's Forethought 166 

The Ladder of St. Augustine 167 

The Phantom Ship 167 

The Warden of the Cinque Ports 168 

Haunted Houses 168 

In the Churchyard at Cambridge 168 

The Emperor's Bird's-Nest 169 

The Two Angels 169 

Daylight and Moonlight 169 

The Jewish Cemetery at Newport 170 

Oliver Basselin 170 



Birds of Passage. p^gb 

Flight the First. 

Victor Galbraith 171 

My Lost Youth 171 

The Ropewalk 172 

The Golden Mile-Stone 172 

Catawba Wine 173 

Santa Filomena 173 

The Discoverer of the North Cape 174 

Daybreak 175 

The Fiftieth Birthday of Agassiz 175 

Children 175 

Sandalphon 175 

Flight the Second. 

The Children's Hour 176 

Enceladus 176 

The Cumberland 176 

Snow-Flakes 177 

A Day of Sunshine 177 

Something Left Undone 177 

Weariness 177 

Flight the Third. 

Fata Morgana 178 

The Haunted Chamber 178 

The Meeting 178 

VoxPopuli 178 

The Castle-Builder 179 

Changed. 179 

The Challenge 179 

The Brook and the Wave 179 

From the Spanish Cancioneros. 179 

Aftermath '. 180 

Epimetheus, or the Poet's Afterthought 180 

Tales of a Wayside Inn. 
Part First. 
Prelude. 

The Wayside Inn 181 

The Landlord's Tale. 

Paul Revere's Ride 183 

Interlude 184 

The Student's Tale. 

The Falcon of Ser Federigo 185 

Interlude 187 

The Spanish Jew's Tale. 

The Legend of Rabbi Ben Levi'. 188 

Interlude 188 

The Sicilian's Tale. 

King Robert of Sicily 188 

Interlude , 190 

The Musician's Tale. 

The Saga of King Olaf 190 

i. The Challenge of Thor 190 

II. King Olaf's Return 190 

in. Thora of Rimol 191 

IV i Queen Sigrid the Haughty 191 

V. The Skerry of Shrieks 1 92 

VI. The Wraith of Odin 193 

VII. Iron-Beard 193 

VIII. Gudrun 195 

IX. Thangbrand the Priest 195 

X. Raud the Strong 196 

XL Bishop Sigurd at Salten Fiord 196 

XII. King Olaf's Christmas 1 97 

xiii. The Building of the Long Serpent. 197 

Xiv. The Crew of the Long Serpent 198 

XV. A Little Bird in the Air 198 

XVI. Queen Thyri and the Angelica 

Stalks 199 

XVII. King Svend of the Forked Beard 199 
xviii. King Olaf and Earl Sigvald 200 

XIX. King Olaf's War-Horns 200 

xx. Einar Tamberskelver 201 

XXI. King Olaf's Death-Drink 201 

xxii. The Nun of Nidaros 202 



CONTEXTS. 



Vll 



Tales of a Wayside Inn. 

Part First 

Interlude 

The Theologian's Tale 

Torqoemada 

Interlude 

The Poet's Talc. 

The Birds of KHlingworth. 
Finale 



Pakt Second. 



208 



208 
205 



205 

207 



201 



Prelude 

The Silician's Tale. 

The Hell of AtrL 208 

interlude 209 

The Spanish .lew's Tale. 

Kamhala 209 

Interlude 210 

The Student's Tale. 

The Cobbler of Hagenau 210 

Interlude 212 

The Musician's Tale. 

The Ballad of Carmilhan 212 

Interlude 214 

The Poet's Tale. 

Lady Wentworth 215 

Interlude 210 

The Theologian's Tale. 

The Legend Beautiful 216 

Interlude 217 

The Student's Second Tale. 

The Baron of St. Castine 217 

Finale 219 



Part Third. 

Prelude 220 

The Spanish Jew's Tale. 

Azrael 220 

Interlude 221 

The Poet's Talc. 

Charlemagne 221 

Interlude 222 

The Student's Tale. 

Emma and Eginhard .• 222 

Interlude 224 

The Theologian's Tale. 

Elizabeth 224 

Interlude 228 

The Silician's Tale. 

The Monk of Casal-Maggiore . 228 

Interlude 230 

The Spanish Jew's Second Tale. 

Seanderbeg 230 

Interlude 231 

The Musician's Tale. 

The Mother's Ghost £32 

Interlude ~'33 

The Landlord's Tale. 

The Rhvme of Sir Christopher 238 

Finale 234 

Flow er-de-Luce. 

Flower-de-Luce 2SS 

Palingenesis 286 

The Bridge of Cloud 236 

Hawthorne 237 



Flower-de-Luce. page 

Christmas Bells 287 

The Wind over the Chimney 237 

The Bells of Lynn , 288 

Killed at the Kurd 288 

Giotto's Town- 238 

To-morrow 288 

Divina Commedia '.3s 

\..el 289 

Judas M loc ibmus 240 

A Handful of Translations. 

The Fugitive 247 

The Siege of Kazan 247 

The Bov and the Brook 248 

To the Stork .' 2 is 

Consolation ri IS 

To Cardinal Richelieu 248 

The Angel and the Child 249 

To Italy 240 

Wanderer's Night-Songs 249 

Remorse 249 

Santa Teresa's Book-Mark 240 

The Masque of Pandora. 

i. The Workshop of Hephaestus.. 250 

II. Olympus 250 

in. Tower of Prometheus on Mount 

Caucasus 250 

IV. The Air 252 

v. The House of Epimetheus 252 

VI. In the Garden 253 

vii. The House of Epimetheus 255 

in. In the Garden 250 

The Hanging of the Crane 257 

Morituri Salutamus 250 

Birds of Passage. 

Flight the Fourth. 

Charles Sumner 261 

Travels by the Fireside 261 

Cadenabbia 201 

Monte Cassino 202 

Amalfi 202 

The Sermon of St. Francis 2(13 

Belisarius 268 

Songo River 204 

A Book of Sonnets. 

Three Friends of Mine 204 

Chaucer 205 

Shakespeare 265 

Milton 26S 

Keats 205 

The Galaxy 205 

The Sound of the Sea 266 

A Summer Day by the Sea 200 

The Tides 200 

A Shadow 266 

A Nameless Grave 266 

Sleep 266 

The Old Bridge at Florence 260 

II Ponte Vecchio di Firenze 200 



POETICAL WORKS 



HENRY WADSWOETH LONGFELLOW. 



VOICES OF THE XIGHT. 



ndiria, woTi'ia vv£ , 

viri'oSoTeipa Tun' n-oAvTTaii'wi' /3poTu>«', 

■Epe(360ee Ifli* fio-Ve /aoAe /caTarrTepo? 

' Aya/ae/ui'di'iov e7ri Soft-ov 

vrr'o yap dA-yewr. un-6 re avp.<f>opa<; 

Euripides. 




PLEASANT it was, when woods were green, 
And winds were soft and low, 

To lie amid some sylvan scene, 

Where, the long drooping boughs between, 

Shadows dark and sunlight sheen 
Alternate come and go; 



Or where the denser grove receives 

sunlight from above. 

But the dark foliage interweaves 

In one unbroken roof of leaves. 

Underneath whose sloping eaves 

The shadows hardly move. 

Beneath some patriarchal tree 

I lay upon the ground ; 
Hi* hoary arms uplifted he, 



And all the broad leaves over me 

Clapped their little hands in glee, 

With one continuous sound ; — 

A dumberouH sound, a sound that brings 

The feelings of a dream. 
Aa of innumerable wioga, 
As. when a bell DO longer swings, 
Faint the hollow murmur rings 

meadow, lake, and stream. 



12 



HYMN TO THE NIGHT.— A PSALM OF LIFE. 



And dreams of that which cannot die, 


Nor rivers flowing ceaselessly, . 


Bright visions, came to me, 


Where the woodlands bend to see 


As lapped in thought I used to lie, 


The bending heavens below. 


And gaze into the summer sky, 




Where the sailing clouds went by, 


"There is a forest where the din 


Like ships upon the sea ; 


Of iron branches sounds ! 




A mighty river roars between, 


Dreams that the soul of youth engage 


And whosoever looks therein 


Ere fancy has been quelled ; 


Sees the heavens all black with sin, 


Old legends of the monkish page, 


Sees not its depths, nor bounds. 


Traditions of the saint and sage, 




Tales that have the rime of age, 


" Athwart the swinging branches cast, 


Aud chronicles of Eld. 


Soft rays of sunshine pour ; 




Then comes the fearful wintry blast ; 


And, loving still these quaint old themes, 


Our hopes, like withered leaves, fall fast ; 


Even in the city's throng 


Pallid lips say, ' It is past ! 


I feel the freshness of the streams, 


We can return no more ! ' 


That, crossed by shades and sunny gleams, 




Water the green land of dreams, 


" Look, then, into thine heart, and write ! 


The holy land of song. 


Yes, into Life's deep stream ! 




All forms of sorrow and delight, 


Therefore, at Pentecost, which brings 


All solemn Voices of the Night, 


The Spring, clothed like a bride, 


That can soothe thee, or affright, — 


When nestling buds unfold their wings, 


Be these henceforth thy theme." 


And bishop's-caps have golden rings, 




Musing upon many things, 




I sought the woodlands wide. 






The green trees whispered low and mild ; 




It was a sound of joy ! 


HYMN TO THE NIGHT. 


They were my playmates when a child, 




And rocked me in their arms so wild ! 


'Acnracrt}], Tpt'AAio"TOs. 


Still they looked at me and smiled, , 




As if I were a boy ; 


I HEARD the trailing garments of the Night 




Sweep through her marble halls ! 


And ever whispered, mild and low, 


I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light 


"Come, be a child once more ! " 


From the celestial walls ! 


And waved their long arms to and fro, 




And beckoned solemnly and slow ; 


I felt her presence, by its spell of might, 


0, I could not choose but go 


Stoop o'er me from above ; 


Into the woodlands hoar, — 


The calm, majestic presence of the Night, 




As of the one I love. 


Into the blithe and breathing air, 




Into the solemn wood, 


I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, 


Solemn and silent everywhere ! 


The manifold, soft chimes, 


Nature with folded hands seemed there, 


That fill the haunted chambers of the Night, 


Kneeling at her evening prayer ! 


Like some old poet's rhymes. 


Like one in prayer I stood. 






From the cool cisterns of the midnight air 


Before me rose an avenue 


My spirit drank repose ; 


Of tall and sombrous pines ; 


The fountain of perpetiial peace flows there, — 


Abroad their fan-like branches grew, 


From those deep cisterns flows. 


And, where the sunshine darted through, 




Spread a vapor soft and blue, 


0, holy Night ! from thee I learn to bear 
What man has borne before ! 


In long and sloping lines. 




Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, 


And, falling on my weary brain, 


And they complain no more. 


Like a fast-falling shower, 




The dreams of youth came back again, 


Peace ! Peace ! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer ! 


Low lispings of the summer rain, 


Descend with broad-winged flight, 


Dropping on the ripened grain, 


The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair, 


As once upon the flower. 


The best-beloved Night ! 


Visions of childhood ! Stay, stay ! 




Ye were so sweet and wild ! 




And distant voices seemed to say, 




" It cannot be ! They pass away ! 
Other themes demand thy lay; 


A PSALM OF LIFE. 


Thou art no more a child ! 






WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO 




THE PSALMIST. 


"The land of Song within thee lies, 




Watered by living springs ; 


Tell me not, in mournful numbers, 


The lids of Fancy's sleepless eyes 


Life is but an empty dream ! 


Are gates unto that Paradise, 


For the soul is dead that slumbers, 


Holy thoughts, like stars, arise, 
Its clouds are angels' wings. 


And things are not what they seem. 






Life is real ! Life is earnest ! 


" Learn, that henceforth thy song shall be, 


And the grave is not its goal ; 


Not mountains capped with snow, 


Dust thou art, to dust returnest, 


Nor forests sounding like the sea, 


Was not spoken of the soul. 






THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS.— FOOTSTEPS OF AXGELS. 13 


Not enjoyment, and not sorrow. 


THE LIGHT OF STARS. 


Is our destined end or way ; 




But to act, that earh t>-inoirow 


The night is come, but not too soon; 


Fiud us farther than to-day. 


And sinking silently. 




All silently, the little moon 


Art is long, and Time is fle< ting, 


Drops down behind the sky. 


And our hearts, thongh stout and bravo. 




Still, liko mnffled drums, arc boating 


There is no light in earth ov heaven 


Funeral marohes bo the grave. 


But the oold light of stars ; 




And the first watch of night is given 


In the world's broad Hold of battle, 


To the red planet Ma is. 


In the bivouac of Life, 

Be not liko dumb, driven cattle ' 
Be a hero in the strife ! 


Is it the tender star of love? 

The star of love and dreams ? 
no ! from that blue tent above, 




A hero's armor gleams. 


Trust no Future, howe'ei pleasant ! 




Let the dead Past bury its dead ! 


And earnest thoughts within me rise, 


Act, — act in the living Present ! 
Heart within, and (rod o'erhead ! 


When I behold afar, 


Suspended in the evening skies, 




The shield of that red star. 


Lives of great men all remind us 




We can make our lives sublime, 


star of strength ! I see thee stand 


And. departing', leave behind us 


And smile upon my pain ; 


Footprints on the sands of time ; — 


Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand, 




And I am strong again. 


Footprints, that perhaps another, 
Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 


Within my breast there is no light 


A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, 
Seeing, shall take heart again. 


But the cold light of stars ; 
I give the first watch of the night 
To the red planet Mars. 


Let us, then, be up and doing, 
With a heart for an}- fate ; 


The star of the unconquered will, 
He rises in my breast, 


Still achieving, still pursuing, 


Serene, and resolute, and still, 


Learn to labor and to wait. 


And calm, and self-possessed. 




And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art, 




That readest this brief psalm, 




As one by one thy hopes depart, 




Be resolute and calm. 


THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. 


fear not in a world like this, 
And thou shalt know erelong, 




Know how sublime a thing it is 


Thehe is a Reaper, whose name is Death, 
And, with his sickle keen, 


To suffer and be strong. 


He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, 
And the flowers that grow between. 






" Shall I have naught that is fair ? " saith he ; 


FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. 


M Have naught but the bearded grain ? 




Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, 


WHEN the hours of Day are numbered, 


I will give them all back again." 


And the voices of the Night 




Wake the better soul, that slumbered, 


He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, 


To a holy, calm delight ; 


He kissed their drooping leaves; 




It was for the Lord of Paradise- 


Ere the evening lamps are lighted, 


He bound them in his sheaves. 


And, like phantoms grim and tall, 
Shadows from the fitful firelight 




" My Lord has need of these flowerets gay," 


Dance upon the parlor wall ; 


The Reaper said, and smiled; 

■ r tokens of the earth are they, 
Where he was once a child. 


Then the forms of the departed 

Enter at the open door ; 
The beloved, the true-hearted, 




Come to visit me once more. 


"They shall all bloom in fields of light, 




Transplanted by my care, 


He, the young and strong, who cherished 


And saints, upon their garments white, 


Noble longings for the strife, 


These sacred blossoms wear." 


By the roadside fell and perished, 




Weary with the march of life ! 


And the mother gave, in tears and pain, 

Mowers she most did love ; 
She knew she should find them all again 
In the fields of light above. 


They, the holy ones and weakly. 

Who the cross of suffering bore, 
Folded their pale hands bo meekly, 

Spake with us on earth no more ! 


O, not in cruelty, not in wrath, 


And with them tin- Being Beauteous, 


The Reaper came that day ; 


Who unto my yontb was given, 


the green earth, 


More than all things else to iove me, 


And took the flowers away. 


And is now a saint in heavi n. 



14 



FLOWERS. 



With a slow and noiseless footstep 
Comes that messenger divine, 

Takes the vacant chair beside me, 
Lays her gentle hand in mine. 

And she sits and gazes at me, 

With those deep and tender eyes, 

Like the stars, so still and saint-like, 
Looking downward from the skies. 



Uttered not, yet comprehended, 
Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, 

Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, 
Breathing from her lips of air. 

O, though oft depressed and lonely, 
All my fears are laid aside, 

If I but remember only 
Such as these have lived and died 




Spake full well, in language quaint and olden, 
One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, 

When he called the flowers, so blue and golden, 
Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine. 

Stars they are, wherein we read our history, 

As astrologers and seers of eld ; 
Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery, 

Like the burning stars, which they beheld. 

Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous, 
God hath written in those stars above ; 

But not less in the bright flowerets under us 
Stands the revelation of his love. 

Bright and glorious is that revelation, 
Written all over this great world of ours ; 

Making evident our own creation, 

In these stars of earth, these golden flowers. 

And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing, 
Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part 

Of the self -same, universal being, 

Which is throbbing in his brain and heart. 

Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining, 
Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day, 

Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining, 
Buds that open only to decay ; 

Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues, 
Flaunting gayly in the golden light ; 

Large desires, with most uncertain issues 
Tender wishes, blossoming at night ! 



These in flowers and men are more than seeming ; 

Workings are they of the self-same powers, 
Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming, 

Seeth in himself and in the flowers. 

Everywhere about us are they glowing, 
Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born ; 

Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflowing, 
Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn ; 



Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing, 
And in Summer's green-emblazoned field, 

But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing, 
In the centre of his brazen shield ; 

Not alone in meadows and green alleys, 
On the mountain-top, and by the brink 

Of sequestered pools in woodland valleys, 
Where the slaves of nature stoop to drink ; 



THE BELEAGUERED CITY.— MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. 15 



Not alone in her vast dome of glory. 


Down the broad Vale of Tears afar 


Not on graves of bird and beast alone, 


The spectral camp is tied; 


But in ol I oathedrala, high and hoary. 


Faith shaieth as a morning star, 


On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone ; 


Our ghastlj fears are dead. 


In the cottage of the rudest peasant. 






In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers, 




Speaking of the Past unto the Present, 


MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. 


Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers ; 






Yi:s, the Year is growing old, 


In all places, then, and in all seasons, 


And his eye is pale and bleared . 


Flowers expand their light and sou 1-1 ike wings, 


Death, with frost \ hand and eold, 


Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons, 


Plucks the old man by the beard, 


How akin they are to human things. 


Sorely, sorely ! 


An 1 with child-like, credulous affection 


The leaves are falling, falling, 


We behold their tender buds expand; 


Solemnly and slow ; 


Emblems of our own great resurrection. 


Caw ! eaw ! the rooks are calling, 


Emblems of the bright and better land. 


It is a sound of woe. 




A sound of woe ! 




Through woods and mountain passes 
The winds, like anthems, roll ; 






They are chanting solemn masses, 




Singing, "Pray for this poor soul, 


THE BELEAGUERED CITY. 


Pray, pray ! " 


I ii \vi: read, in some old, marvellous tale, 


And the hooded clouds, like friars, 


Some legend strange and vague, 


Tell their beads in drops of rain, 


That a midnight host of spectres pale 


And patter their doleful prayers ; 
But their prayers are all hi vain, 


Beleaguered the walls of Prague. 




s All in vain ! 


Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, 




. With the wan moon overhead. 


There he stands in the foul weather, 


There stood, as in an awful dream, 


The foolish, fond Old Year, 


The army of the dead. 


Crowned with wild flowers and with heather, 




Like weak, despised Lear, 


White as a sea-fog, landward bound, 


A king, a king ! 


The spectral camp was seen, 




And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, 


Then comes the summer-like day, 


The river flowed between. 


Bids the old man rejoice ! 




His joy ! his last ! 0, the old man gray 


No other voice nor sound was there, 


Loveth that ever-soft voice, 


No dram, nor sentry's pace; 


Gentle and low. 


The mist-like banners clasped the air, 




As clouds with clouds embrace. 


To the crimson woods he saith, 




To tli e voice gentle and low, 


But when the old cathedral bell 


Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath, 


Proclaimed the morning prayer, 


" Pray do not mock me so ! 


white pavilions rose and fell 
On the alarmed air. 


Do not laugh at me ! " 






And now the sweet day is dead ; 


Down the broad valley fast and far 


Cold in his arms it lies ; 


The troubled army fled ; 


No stain from its breath is spread 


Up rose the glorious morning star, 


Over the glassy skies, 


The ghastly host was dead. 


No mist or stain ! 


I have read, in the marvellous heart of man, 


Then, too, the Old Year dieth, 


Tnat strange and mystic scroll, 


And the forests utter a moan, 


Thai an army of phantoms vast and wan 


Like the voice of one who crieth 


Beleaguer the human soul. 


In the wilderness alone, 




" Vex not his ghost ! " 


Encamped beside Life's rushing stream, 




In fancy's misty light. 


Then comes, with an awful roar, 


„ ntic shapes and shadows gleam 
Portentous through the night. 


Gathering and sounding on, 


The storm-wind from Labrador, 




The wind Euroclydon, 


Upon its midnight battle-ground 
The spectral camp is se:-n. 


The storm -wind ! 




An 1. with a BOrrowxol deep sound, 


Howl ! howl ! and from the forest 


Flows the River of Life between. 


Sweep the red leaves away ! 




Would, the sins that thou abhorrest, 


No other voice nor sound is I 


O Soul ! could thus decay, 


In the armv of the grave ; 


And be swept away ! 


No other challenge breaks the air, 




But the rushing of Life's wave. 


For there shall come a mightier blast, 




Their shall be a darker day ; 


And when the solemn and deep church-bell 


And the stars, from heaven down-cast 


• lie soul to pray, 


Like red leaves be swept away ! 


Th- midnight phantoms feel the spell, 


Kyrie. eleyson ! 


The shadows sweep away. 


Christ ■, eleyson ! 



to 



AN APRIL DAY.— AUTUMN.— WOODS IN WINTER. 



EAELIEE POEMS 



[These poems were written for the most part during my college life, and all of them before the age of nineteen. 
Some have found their way into schools, and seem to be successful. Others lead a vagabond and precarious exist- 
ence in the corners of newspapers ; or have changed their names and run away to seek their fortune beyond the 
sea. I say, with the Bishop of Avranches on a similar occasion : "I cannot be displeased to see these children of 
mine, which I have neglected, and almost exposed, brought from their wanderings in lanes and alleys, and safely 
lodged, in order to go forth into the world together in a more decorous garb."] 



AN APRIL DAY. 

When the warm sun, that brings 
Seed-time and harvest, has returned again, 
'T is sweet to visit the still wood, where springs 

The first flower of the plain. 

I love the season well, 
When forest glades are teeming with bright 

forms, 
Nor dark and many -folded clouds foretell 

The coming-on of storms. 

From the earth's loosened mould 
The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives ; 
Though stricken to the heart with winter's cold, 

The drooping tree revives. 

The softly -warbled song 
Comes from the pleasant woods, and colored wings 
Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves along 

The forest openings. 

When the bright sunset fills 
The silver woods with light, the green slope throws 
It.3 shadows in the hollows of the hills, 

And wide the upland glows. 

And when the eve is born, 
In the blue lake the sky, o'er-reaching far, 
Is hollowed out, and the moon dips her horn, 

And twinkles many a star. 

Inverted in the tide 
Stand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows 

throw, 
And the fair trees look over, side by side, 

And see themselves below. 

Sweet April ! many a thought 
Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed ; 
Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brough 

Life's golden fruit is shed. 



AUTUMN. 

With what a glory comes and goes the year ! 
The buds of spring, those beautiful harbingers 
Of sunny skies and cloudless times, enjoy 
Life's newness, and earth's garniture spread out 
And when the silver habit of the clouds 
Comes down upon the autumn sun, and with 
A sober gladness the old year takes up 
His bright inheritance of golden fruits, 
A pomp and pageant fill the splendid scene. 

There is a beautiful spirit breathing now 
Its mellow richness on the clustered trees, 
And, from a beaker full of richest dyes, 
Pouring new glory on the autumn woods, 
And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds. 
Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird, 



Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales 
The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer, 
Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life 
Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned, 
And silver beach, and maple yellow-leaved, 
Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down 
By the wayside a-weary. Through the trees 
The golden robin moves. The purple finch, 
That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds, 
A winter bird, comes with its plaintive whistle, 
And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst aloud 
From cottage roofs the warbling bluebird sings, 
And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke, 
Sounds from the threshing floor the busy flail. 

O what a glory doth this world put on 
For him who, with a fervent heart, goes forth 
Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks 
On duties well performed, and days well spent ! 
For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves, 
Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teach- 
ings. 
He shall so hear the solemn hymn that Death 
Has lifted up for all, that he shall go 
To his long resting-place without a tear. 



WOODS IN WINTER. 

When winter winds are piercing chill, 

And through the hawthorn blows the gale, 

With solemn feet I tread the hill, 
That overbrows the lonely vale. 

O'er the bare upland, and away 

Through the long reach of desert woods, 

The embracing sunbeams chastely play, 
And gladden these deep solitudes 

Where, twisted round the barren oak, 
The summer vine in beauty clung, 

And summer winds the stillness broke, 
The crystal icicle is hung. 

Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs 
Pour out the river's gradual tide, 

Shrilly the skater's iron rings, 

And voices fill the woodland side. 

Alas ! how changed from the fair scene, 
When birds sang out their mellow lay, 

And winds were soft, and woods were green, 
And the song ceased not with the day ! 

But still wild music is abroad, 

Pale, desert woods ! within your crowd ; 
And gathering winds, in hoarse accord, 

Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud. 

Chill airs and wintry winds ! my ear 
Has grown familiar with your song ; 

I hear it in the opening year, 
I listen, and it cheers me long. 



HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN" NOTS.— SUNRISE ON THE HILLS. 



17 




O'er the bare upland, and away. 



HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF 
BETHLEHEM. 

AT Tin: ( ONSBCRA.TIOK OF PULASKl'8 BANNER. 

\Vnr\- the dying flame of day 

gh the chancel shot its ray, 

mmering tapers shed 
light on the cowled head ; 
burning swung. 
Where, before the altar, hung 
The crimson banner, that with prayer 

en a msecrated there. 
And the Dans' Bweet hymn was heard the while, 
•w, in the dim, mysterious aials. 

•• Tak • thy banner ! May it wave 
1 ' idly o'er the good and brave ; 
When the battle's distant wail 
I. .k- the sabbath of our vale, 

i the clarion's music thrills 

ie hearts of these lone lulls. 
When the spear in conflict sh ik «, 
An I the strong lance shivering break-. 

: thy banner! and. beneath 

-cloud's • ncrrcling wreath, 
Ru ird it. till our homes arc : 

In the dark and trying hour, 

In the breaking 

a and men, 

]\- right hand will shield thee then. 

k • thy banner! But when night 
1 •■ ghastly ri'_ r lit. 

If the van mox bow, 

1 in ! By our holy vow. 
B . . - and many *• 

.■■• hath shared ! 

bparc Inm ! as thou wouhUt be spared ! 
'J 



•• Take thy banner ! and if e'er 
Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier, 
And the muffled drum should beat 
To the tread of mournful feet, 
Then this crimson flag shall be 
Martial cloak and shroud for thee." 

Th ! warrior took that banner proud, 
And it was his martial cloak and shroud ! 



SUNRISE ON THE HILLS. 

I stood upon the hills, when heaven's wide arch 
Was glorious with the sun's returning march, 
And woods were brightened, and Boft u r ah » 
Went forth to kiss the sun-clad vale-. 
The clouds were far beneath me ; bathed in light, 
ithered mid-way round the wooded height, 
And, in their fading glory, shone 
Like hosts in battle overthrown, 
A> many a pinnacle, with shifting glance. 
Through the gray ini>t thrust up its shattered 
lance. 

And rocking on the cliff was left 

The dark pine blasi '1. bare, and cleft. 

1 of cloud was lifted, and below 
Glowed the rich valley, and the river's Sow 
Was darkened by the foreBts shade, 

; me 1 in the white c tsc 
Where upward, in the mellow blush of day, 

Lay bittern wheeled hia Bpiral way. 

.lit waters flash, 

1 saw the current whirl and flash, 

ichly, by the blue lakes silver beach, 
ooda were bending with a silent reach. 
o'er the vale, with gentle swell, 

The music of the village bell 



18 



THE SPIRIT OF POETRY.— BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK 



Came sweetly to the echo-giving hills ; 
And the wild horn, whose voice the woodland fills, 
Was ringing to the merry shout, 
That f amt and far the glen sent out, 
Where, answering to the sudden shot, thin smoke, 
Through thick-leaved branches, from the dingle 
broke. 

If thou art worn and hard beset 
With sorrows, that thou wouldst forget, 
If thou wouldst read a lesson, that will keep 
Thy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep, 
Go to the woods and hills ! No tears 
Dim the sweet look that Nature wears. 



THE SPIRIT OF POETRY. 

There is a quiet spirit in these woods, 
That dwells where'er the gentle south-wind blows ; 
Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade, 
The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air, 
The leaves above their sunny palms outspread 
With what a tender and impassioned voice 
It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought, 
When the fast ushering star of morning comes 
O'er-riding the gray hills with golden scarf ; 
Or when the cowled and dusky-sandled Eve, 
In mourning weeds, from out the western gate, 
Departs with silent pace ! That spirit moves 
In the green valley, where the silver brook, 
From its full laver, pours the white cascade ; 
And, babbling low amid the tangled woods, 
Slips down through moss-grown stones with end- 
less laughter. 
And frequent, on the everlasting hills, . 
Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself 
In all the dark embroidery of the storm, 
And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, 

amid 
The silent majesty of these deep woods, 
Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth, 
As to the sunshine and the pure, bright air 
Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted 

bards 
Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades. 
For them there was an eloquent voice in all 
The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun, 
The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way, 
Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds, 
Th? swelling upland, where the sidelong sun 
Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes, 
Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks 

in, 
Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale, 
The distant lake, fountains, and mighty trees, 
In many a lazy syllable, repeating 
Their old poetic legends to the wind. 

And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill 
The world ; and, in these wayward days of youth, 
My busy fancy oft embodies it, 
As a bright image of the light and beauty 
That dwell in nature ; of the heavenly forms 
We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues 
That stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the 

clouds 
When the sun sets. Within her tender eye 
The heaven of April, with its changing light, 
And when it wears the blue of May, is hung, 
And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair 



Is like the summer tresses of the trees, 

When twilight makes them brown, and on her 

cheek 
Blushes the richness of an autumn sky, 
With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath, 
It is so like the gentle air of Spring, 
As, from the morning's dewy flowers, it comes 
Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy 
To have it round us, and her silver voice 
Is the rich music of a summer bird, 
Heard in the still night, with its passionate 

cadence. 



BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK. 

On sunny slope and beechen swell, 
The shadowed light of evening fell ; 
And, where the maple's leaf was brown, 
With soft and silent lapse came down, 
The glory, that the wood receives, 
At sunset, in its golden leaves. 

Far upward in the mellow light 
Rose the blue hills. One cloud of white, 
Around a far uplifted cone, 
In the warm blush of evening shone ; 
An image of the silver lakes, 
By which the Indian's soul awakes. 

But soon a funeral hymn was heard 
Where the soft breath of evening stirred 
The tall, gray forest ; and a band 
Of stern in heart, and strong in hand, 
Came winding down beside the wave, 
To lay the red chief in his grave. 

They sang, that by his native bowers 
He stood, in the last moon of flowers, 
And thirty snows had not yet shed 
Their glory on the warrior's head ; 
But, as the summer fruit decays, 
So died he in those naked days. 

A dark cloak of the roebuck's skin 
Covered the warrior, and within 
Its heavy folds the weapons, made 
For the hard toils of war, were laid ; 
The cuirass, woven of plaited reeds, 
And the broad belt of shells and beads. 

Before, a dark-haired virgin train 
Chanted the death dirge of the slain ; 
Behind, the long procession came 
Of hoary men and chiefs of fame, 
With heavy hearts, and eyes of grief, 
Leading the war-horse of their chief. 

Stripped of his proud and martial dress, 
Uncurbed, unreined, and riderless, 
With darting eye, and nostril spread, 
And heavy and impatient tread, 
He came ; and oft that eye so proud 
Asked for his rider in the crowd. 

They buried the dark chief ; they freed 
Beside the grave his battle steed ; 
And swift an arrow cleaved its way 
To his stern heart ! One piercing neigh 
Arose, and, on the dead man's plain, 
The rider grasps his steed again. 



COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 



19 



TRANSLATIONS. 



TDon Jorge Manrique, Che author of the following poem, nourished hi the last half of the fifteenth century. 
Be followed the profession of arms, and died on the deld of battle, .Mar. ana. in his History of Spam, makes hon- 
orable mention of him. as being present at the siege of Ocle> : and speaks of him as " a youth of estimable qual- 
ities, who in this war gave brilliant proofs of his valor. He died young; and was thus cut off from longexer 
rising his great virtues, and exhibiting to the world the light of his genius, which was already known to Eame." 
He was mortally wounded in a skirmish near Cafiavete, in the year 1479. 

The name of BodrigO Manrique, the lather of the poet. Oonde de Parades and Maestre de Santiago, is well 
known in Spanish history and song. He died in 1476 : aocording bo Mariana, in the town of Ucles; but, accord- 
ing to the poem o* hhison, in Ocana. it was his death thai called forth the poem apoa which rests the literary 
remit uion of the younger Manrique. In the language of his historian, " Don Jorge M unique, in an elegant Ode, 
full of poetie beauties, rich embellishments of genius, and high moral reflections, mourned the death of his father 
as with a funeral hymn." This praise is not exaggerated. The poem is a model in its kind. Its conception is 
solemn and beautiful : and. in accordance with it, the style moves on,— calm, dignified, and majestic] 



COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 
FROM TIIR SPANISH. 

i.kt the soul her slumbers break. 
Let thought be quickened, and awake ; 
Awake to see 

How soon this life is past and gone, 
And death comes softly stealiug on, 
How silently ! 

Swiftly our pleasures glide away, 
Our hearts recall the distant day 
With many sighs ; 
The moments that are speeding fast 
We heed not, but the past — the past, 
More highly prize. 

Onward its course the present keeps, 
Onward the constant current sweeps, 
Till life is done; 

And. did we judge of time aright, 
The past and future in their flight 
Would be as one. 

Let no one fondly dream again, 
That Hope in all her shadowy train 
Will not decay ; 

Fleeting as were the dreams of old, 
Remembered like a tale that's told, 
They pass away. 

Our lives are rivers, gliding free 
To that unfathomed, boundless sea, 
The silent grave ! 

Thither all earthly pomp and boast 
EfcoU, to be swallowed up and lost 
In one dark wave. 

Thither the mighty torrents stray, 
Thither the brook pursues its way, 
And tinkling rill. 
There all are equal ; side by side 
The poor man and the son of pride 
Lie calm and still. 

1 will not here invoke the throng 
Of orators and sons of song, 
The deathless few ; 

Fiction entices and deceives, 

And, tprinkled o'er her fragrant leaves 

Lies poisonous dew. 

To One alone my thoughts arise, 

Tne Eternal Truth, the Good and \Vi-< . 

To Him I cry. 

Who shared on earth our common lot, 
But the world comprehended not 
His deity. 



This world is but the rugged road 
Which leads us to the bright abode 
Of peace above ; 

So let us choose that narrow way, 
Which leads no traveller's foot astray 
From realms of love. 

Our cradle is the starting-place, 
Life is the running of the race, 
We reach the goal 

When, in the mansions of the blest, 
Death leaves to its eternal rest 
The weary soul. 

Did we but use it as we ought, 

This world would school each wandering thought 

To its high state. 

Faith wings the soul beyond the sky, 

Up to that better world on high, 

For which we wait. 

Yes, the glad messenger of love, 
To guide us to our home above, 
The Saviour came ; 
Born amid mortal cares and fears, 
He suffered in this vale of tears 
A death of shame. 

Behold of what delusive worth 
The bubbles we pursue on earth, 
The shapes we chase, 
Amid a world of treachery ! 
They vanish ere death shuts the eye, 
And leave no trace. 

Time steals them from us, chances strange, 

Disastrous accident, and change, 

That come to all ; 

Even in the most exalted state, 

Relentless sweeps the stroke of fate ; 

The strongest fall. 

Tell me, the charms that lovers seek 
In tfce clear f ye and blushing cheek, 
The hues that play 
O'ei rosy lip and brow of snow, . 
When hoary age approaches slow, 
Ah, where are they ? 

The cunning skill, the curious arts, 
The glorious strength that youth imparts 
In life's first stage ; 
These shall become a heavy weight, 
When Time swings wide Ids outward gate 
i To weary age. 

The noble blood of Gothic name, 
Hero* ■ emblazoned high to fame, 
1 In long array ; 



20 



COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 



How, in the onward course of time, 
The landmarks of that race sublime 
Were swept away ! 

Some, the degraded slaves of lust, 
Prostrate and trampled in the dust, 
Shall rise no more ; 
Others, by guilt and crime, maintain 
The scutcheon, that, without a stain, 
Their fathers bore. 

Wealth and the high estate of pride, 

With what untimely speed they glide, 

How soon depart ! 

Bid not the shadowy phantoms stay, 

The vassals of a mistress they, 

Of fickle heart. 

These gifts in Fortune's hands are found 
Her swift revolving wheel turns round, 
And they are gone ! 
No rest the inconstant goddess knows, 
But changing, and without repose, 
Still hurries on. 

Even could the hand of avarice save 
Its gilded baubles, till the grave 
Reclaimed its prey, 
Let none on such poor hopes rely ; 
Life, like ah empty dream, flits by, 
And where are they ? 

Earthly desires and sensual lust 

Are passions springing from the dust, 

They fade and die ; 

But, in the life beyond the tomb, 

They seal the immortal spirit's doom 

Eternally ! 

The pleasures and delights, which mask 
In treacherous smiles life's serious task, 
What are they, all, 
But the fleet coursers of the chase, 
And death an ambush in the race, 
Wherein we fall V 

No foe, no dangerous pass, we heed, 
Brook no delay, but onward speed 
With loosened rein ; 
And, when the fatal snare is near, 
We strive to check our mad career, 
But strive in vain. 

Could we new charms to age impart, 
And fashion with a cunning art 
The human face, 

As we can clothe the soul with light, 
And make the glorious spirit bright 
With heavenly grace, 

How busily each passing hour 
Should we exert that magic power, 
What ardor show, 
To deck the sensual slave of sin, 
Yet leave the freeborn soul within, 
In weeds of woe ! 

Monarchs, the powerful and the strong. 

Famous in history and in song 

Of olden time, 

Saw, by the stern decrees of fate, 

Their kingdoms lost, and desolate 

Their race sublime. 

Who is the champion ? who the strong ? 

Pontiff and priest, and sceptred throng ? 

On these shall fall 

As heavily the hand of Death, 

As when it stays the shepherd's breath 

Beside his stall. 



I speak not of the Trojan name, 

Neither its glory nor its shame 

Has met our eyes ; 

Nor of Rome's great and glorious dead, 

Though we have heard so oft, and read, 

Their histories. 

Little avails it now to know 
Of ages passed so long ago, 
Nor how they rolled ; 
Our theme shall be of yesterday, 
Which to oblivion sweeps away, 
Like days of old. 

Where is the King, Don Juan ? Where 

Each royal prince and noble heir 

Of Aragon ? 

Where are the courtly gallantries ? 

The deeds of love and high emprise, 

In battle done ? 

Tourney and joust, that charmed the eye, 
And scarf, and gorgeous panoply, 
And nodding plume, 
What were they but a pageant scene ? 
What but the garlands, gay and green, 
That deck the tomb ? 

Where are the high-born dames, and where 
Their gay attire, and jewelled hair, 
And odors sweet ? 

Where are the gentle knights, that came 
To kneel, and breathe love's ardent flame, 
Low at their feet ? 

Where is the song of Troubadour ? 

Where are the lute and gay tambour 

They loved of yore ? 

Where is the mazy dance of old, 

The flowing robes, inwrought with gold, 

The dancers wore ? 

And he who next the sceptre swayed, 
Henry, whose royal court displayed 
Such power and pride ; 
O, in what winning smiles arrayed, 
The world its various pleasures laid 
His throne beside ! 

But O how false and full 01 guile 
That world, which wore so soft a smile 
But to betray ! 

She, that had been his friend before, 
Now from the fated monarch tore 
Her charms away. 

The countless gifts, the stately walls, 

The royal palaces, and halls 

All filled with gold ; 

Plate with armorial bearings wrought, 

Chambers with ample treasures fraught 

Of wealth untold ; 

The noble steeds, and harness bright, 
And gallant lord, and stalwart knight, 
In rich array, 

Where shall we seek them now ? Alas ! 
Like the bright dewdrops on the grass, 
They passed away. 

His brother, too, whose factious zeal 
Usurped the sceptre of Castile, 
Unskilled to reign ; 
What a gay, brilliant court had he, 
When all the flower of chivalry 
Was in his train ! 

But he was mortal ; and the breath, 
That flamed from the hot forge of Death, 
Blasted his years ; 



COPLAS DE MANRIQUK 



31 



Judgment of God! that flame by thee, 
When raging fierce and tearfully, 
Was quenched in tears ! 

Spain's haughty Const-able, the true 
And gallant Blaster, whom we knew 
Most loved of all ; 
Breathe not a whispex of bis pride, 

11 :i the gloomy scaffold died, 
Ignoble fall ! 

Tne countless treasures of his care, 

His villages and villas fair, 

Hi> mighty power. 

What were they all but grief and shame, 

Tears and a broken heart, when came 

The parting hour J 

His other brothers, proud and high, 
Masters, who, in prosperity, 
Might rival kings ; 
Who made the bravest and the best 
The bondsmen of their high behest, 
Their underlings; 

What was their prosperous estate 
When high exalted and elate 
With power and pride ': 
What, but a transient gleam of light, 
A flame, which, glaring at its height, 
Grew dim and died? 

Bo many a duke of royal name, 
Marquis and count of spotless fame, 
And baron brave. 

That might the sword of empire wield, 
All these, O Death, hast thou concealed 
In the dark grave ! 

Their deeds of mercy and of arms, 
In peaceful days, or war's alarms, 
When thou dost show, 
O Death, thy stern and angry face, 
One stroke of thy all-powerful mace 
Can overthrow. 

Unnumbered hosts, that threaten nigh, 
Pennon and standard flaunting high, 
And flag displayed; 
High battlements intrenched around, 
Y,x tion, and moated wall, and mound, 
And pabsade. 

And covered trench, secure and deep, 

All these cannot one victim keep, 

O Death, from thee, 

When thou dost battle in thy wrath, 

And thy strong shafts pursue their path 

Unerringly. 

O World ! so few the years we live. 

Would that the life which thou dost give 

Were life indeed ! 

Alas ! thy sorr »ws fall so fast. 

Our happiest iio ir is when at last 

The soul is fre d. 

Our days are covered o'er with grief, 

rrows neither few nor brief 
Veil all in gloom : 
Left desolate of real good, 
Within this cheerless solitude 
No pleasures bloom. 

Thy pilgrimage begins in t r -ars. 
And ends in bitter doubtfl and fears, 
Or dark despair ; 
Mi [way so many toils a- 

• wlu. lingers longest here 
Knows most of care. 



Thy goods are bought with many a groan, 

By the hot sweal of toil alone, 

And weary hearts ; 

Fleet- footed is the approach of woe, 

Hut with a lingering step and slow 

Its form departs. 

And lie, the good man's shield and shade, 

To whom all hearts their homage paid, 

As Virtue's son, 

Hoderie Manrique, he whose name 

Is written on the scroll of Fame, 

Spain's champion ; 

His signal deeds and prowess high 

Demand no pom]K>us eulogy, 

Ye saw his deeds | 

Why should their praise in verse be sung ? 

The name, that dwells on every tongue, 

No minstrel needs. 

To friends a friend ; how kind to all 
The vassals of this ancient hall 
And feudal fief ! 
To foes how stern a foe was he ! 
And to the valiant and the free 
How brave a chief ! 

What prudence with the old and wise : 

What grace in youthful gayeties ; 

In all how sage ! 

Benignant to the serf and slave, 

He showed the base and falsely brave 

A lion's rage. 

His was Octavian's prosperous star, 

The rush of Cassar's conquering car 

At battle's call ; 

His, Scipio's virtue ; his, the skill 

And the indomitable will 

Of Hannibal 

His was a Trajan's goodness, his 

A Titus' noble charities 

And righteous laws ; 

The arm of Hector, and the might 

Of Tully, to maintain the right 

In truth's just cause; 

The clemency of Antonine, 
Aurelius' countenance divine, 
Firm, gentle, still ; 
The eloquence of Adrian, 
And Theodosius' love to man, 
And generous will ; 

In tented field and bloody fray, 
An Alexander's vigorous sway 
And stern command ; 
The faith of Constantine ; ay, more, 
The fervent love Camillus bore 
His native land. 

He left no well-filled treasury, 

He heaped no pile of riches high, 

Not massive plate ; 

He fought the Moors, and, in their fall, 

City and tower and castled wall 

Were his estate. 

Upon the hard-fought battle-ground, 
Brave steeds and gallant riders found 
A common grave ; 

And there tne warrior's hand did gain 
The rents, and the long vassal train, 
That conquest gave. 

And if. of old, his halls displayed 
1 The honored and exalted L;rade 
</rth had gained, 



THE GOOD SHEPHERD. 



So, in the dark, disastrous hour, 


' ' The eternal life, beyond the sky, 


Brothers and bondsmen of his power 


Wealth cannot purchase, nor the high 


His hand sustained. 


And proud estate ; 




The soul in dalliance laid, the spirit 


After high deeds, not left untold, 


Corrupt with sin, shall not inherit 


In the stern warfare, which of old 


A joy so great. 


'T was his to share, 




Such noble leagues he made, that more 


" But the good monk, in cloistered cell, 


And fairer regions, than before, 


Shall gain it by his book and bell, 


His guerdon were. 


His prayers and bears ; 




And the brave knight, whose arm endures 


These are the records, half effaced, 


Fierce battle, and against the Moors 


Which, with the hand of youth, he traced 


His standard rears. 


On history's page ; 




But with fresh victories he drew 


1 1 And thou, brave knight, whose hand has poured 


Each fading character anew 


The life-blood of the Pagan horde 


In his old age. 


O'er all the land, 




In heaven shalt thou receive, at length, 


By his unrivalled skill, by great 


The guerdon of thine earthly strength 


And veteran service to the state, 


And dauntless hand. 


By worth adored, 




He stood, in his high dignity, 


' ' Cheered onward by this promise sure, 


The proudest knight of chivalry, 


Strong in the faith entire and pure 


Knight of the Sword. 


Thou dost profess, 




Depart, thy hope is certainty, 


He found his cities and domains 


The third, the better life on high 


Beneath a tyrant's galling chains 


Shalt thou possess." 


And cruel power ; 




But, by fierce battle and blockade, 


" O Death, no mere, no more delay ; 


Soon his own banner was displayed 


My spirit longs to flee away, 


From every tower. 


And be at rest ; 




The will of Heaven my will shall be, 


By the tried valor of his hand, 


I bow to the divine decree r 


His monarch and his native land 


To God's behest. 


"Were nobly served ; 




Let Portugal repeat the story, 


' ' My soul is ready to depart, 


And proud Castile, who shared the glory 


No thought rebels, the obedient heart 


His arms deserved. 


Breathes forth no sigh ; 




The wish on earth to linger still 


And when so oft, for weal or woe, 


Were vain, when 't is God's sovereign will 


His life upon the fatal throw 


That we shall die. 


Had been cast down ; 




When he had served, with patriot zeal, 


" thou, that for our sins didst take 


Beneath the banner of Castile, 


A human form, and humbly make 


His sovereign's crown ; 


Thy home on earth ; 




Thou, that to thy divinity 


And done such deeds of valor strong, 


A human nature didst ally 


That neither history nor song 


By mortal birth, 


Can count them all ; 




Then, on Ocafia's castled rock, 


"And in that form didst suffer here 


Death at his portal came to knock, 


Torment, and agony, and fear, 


With sudden call, 


So patiently ; 




By thy redeeming grace alone, 


Saying, l ■ Good Cavalier, prepare 


And not for merits of my own, 


To leave this world of toil and care 


0, pardon me !" 


With joyful mien ; 

Let thy strong heart of steel this day 


As thus the dying warrior prayed, 


Put on its armor for the fray, 


Without one gathering mist or shade 


The closing scene. 


Upon his mind ; 




Encircled by his family, 


" Since thou hast been, in battle-strife, 


Watched by affection's gentle eye 
So soft and kind : 


So prodigal of health and life, 




For earthly fame, 


His soul to Him, who gave it, rose ; 


Let virtue nerve thy heart again ; 
Loud on the last stern battle-plain 


God lead it to its long repose, 

Its glorious rest ! 

And, though the warrior's sun has set, 


They call thy name. 




Its light shall linger round us yet, 


" Think not the struggle that draws near 


Bright, radiant, blest. 


Too terrible for man, nor fear 




To meet the foe ; 




Nor let thy noble spirit grieve, 
Its life of glorious fame to leave 






On earth below. 






THE GOOD SHEPHERD. 


" A life of honor and of worth 




Has no eternity on earth, 


FROM THE SPANISH OF LOPE DE VEGA. 


7 T is but a name ; 




And yet its glory far exceeds 


Shepherd ! who with thine amorous, sylvan song 


That base ari*d sensual life, which leads 


Hast broken the slumber that encompassed me, 


To want and shame. 


Who mad'st thy crook from the accursed tree, 



TO-MORROW.— THE CELESTIAL PILOT. 



33 



. 

On which thy powerful arms wore Btretched so 

kmg 1 

Lead me to mercy's ever-flowing fountains ; 

For thou my shepherd, guard, ami guide shalt 

be; 
I will obey thy voice, and wait to see 
Thy feet all-beaut '.ful upon the mountains. 
Hear^ Shepherd ! thou who for thy flock art 
dying, 
O, wash away these scarlet sins, for thou 
Bejoiceat at the contrite sinner's vow. 
O, wait ! to thee my weary soul is crying, 
Wait for me ! xet why ask it, when I sec. 
With feet nailed to the cross, thou'rt waiting 

still fox me '. 



TO-MORROW. 
FROM Tlir. SPANISH OF LOPE DB VBGA. 

LORD, what am I, that, with unceasing care. 
Thou didst Beek alter me, that thou didst wait, 
Wet with unhealthy dews, before my gate, 
And pass the gloomy nights of winter there? 

O strange delusion ! that 1 did not greet 

Thy blest approach, and O, to Heaven how lost, 

If my ingratitude's unkindly frost 

Has chilled the bleeding wounds upon thy feet. 

How oft my guardian angel gently cried, 

"Soul, from thy casement look, and thou shalt 

How he persists to knock and wait for thee !" 
And. ! how often to that voice of sorrow, 
" To-morrow we will open." 1 replied, 
And when the morrow came I answered still. 
i% To-morrow. M 



Celestial King ! O let thy presence pass 
Before my spirit, and an image fair 

Shall meet that look of mercy from on high 
As the reflected image in a gla-~s 
Doth meet the look of him who seeks it ther. 
And owes its being to the gazer's eye. 



, 



THE BROOK. 



FKOM THE SPANISH. 



THE NATIVE LAXD. 

FKOM THE SPANISH OF FRANCISCO DE ALDANA. 

CLEAR fount of light ! my native land on high, 
Bright with a glory that shall never fade ! 

sion oi truth ! without a veil or shade, 
Thy holy quiet meets the spirit's eye. 

dwells the soul in its ethereal essence, 
< rasping no longer for life's feeble breath ; 

sentinelledui heaven, its glorious presence 
With pitying eye beholds, yet fears not, death. 
Beloved country ! banished from thy shore, 
A stranger in this prison-house of clay. 
The exiled spirit weeps and sighs for thee ! 
I i enward the bright perfections I adore 
Direct, and the sure promise cheers the way, 
That, whither love aspires, there shall my 
dwelling !>e. 



THE IMAGE OF GOD. 

Ron THE SPANISH <>r rBANCISCO DE ALDANA. 

LORD ! who seest, from yon starry height, 
Oi ntre 1 in one the future and the past, 

'iif I in thine own image, see how fast 
■ mM rib -cures in me what once was 
bright I 
Eternal Bon I the warmth which thou hast given, 
Bowery April, fast decs 
Y * in the hoary wint r of my day-. 
Forever green shall be my trust m Heaven. 



LAUGH of the mountain ! — lyre of bird and tree ! 
Pomp of the meadow ! mirror of the morn ! 
The soul of Aprtl, unto whom are born 
The rose and jessamine, leaps wild in thee ! 
Although, where'er thy devious current strays, 
The lap of earth with gold and silver teems, 
To me thy clear proceeding brighter seems 
Than golden sands, that charm each shepherd's 
gaze. 
How without guile thy bosom, all transparent 
As the pure crystal, let the curious eye 
Thy secrets scan, thy smooth, round pebbles 
count ! 
How, without malice murmuring, glides thy cur- 
rent ! 
O sweet simplicity of days gone by ! 
Thou shun'st the haunts of man, to dwell in 
limpid fount ! 



THE CELESTIAL PILOT. 

FKOM DAXTE. PURGATOIUO, U. 

And now, behold ! as at the approach of morn- 
ing, 

Through the gross vapors, Mars grows fiery red 

Down in the west upon the ocean floor, 
Appeared to me, — may I again behold it ! 

A light along the sea, so swiftly coming, 

Its motion by no flight of wing is equalled. 
And when therefrom I had withdrawn a little 

Mine eyes, that I might question my conductor, 

Again I saw it brighter grown and larger. 
I Thereafter, on all sides of it, appeared , 

I knew not what of white, and underneath, 

Little by little, there came forth another. 
My master }-et had uttered not a word, 

While the first whiteness into wings unfolded ; 

But, when he clearly recognized the pilot, 
He cried aloud : l " Quick, quick, and bow the 
knes ! 

Behold the Angel of God ! fold up thy hands ! 

Henceforward shalt thou see such officers ! 
See, how he scorns all human arguments, 

So that no oar lie wants, nor other Bail 

Than his own wings, between so distant shores ! 
See, how he holds them, pointed straight to 
heaven, 

Fanning the air with the eternal pinions, 

That do not moult themselves like mortal 
hair!" 
And then, as nearer and more near us came 

The Bird of Heaven, more glorious he ap- 
peared. 

So that the eye could not sustain his presence, 
Bat down I cast it; and he came to shore 

With a small vessel, gliding swift and light. 

So that the water swallowed naught thereof. 
Upon the stern stood the Celestial Pilot ! 

B titude seemed written in his face! 

And more than a hundred spirits sat within. 
" Tu i situ />,'/>/ ,i, /Egypio .' " 



24 



THE TERRESTRIAL PARADISE.— THE CHILD ASLEEP. 



Thus sang they all together in. one voice, 
With whatso in that Psalm is after written. 
Then made he sign of holy rood upon them, 
Whereat all cast themselves upon the shore, 
And he departed swiftly as he came. 



THE TERRESTRIAL PARADISE. 

FROM DANTE. PURGATORIO, XXVIII. 

Longing already to search in and round 

Tne heavenly forest, dense and living-green, 
Which tempered to the eyes the new-born day, 
Withouten more delay I left the bank, 
Crossing the level country, slowly, slowly, 
Over the soil, that everywhere breathed fra- 
grance. 
A gently-breathing air, that no mutation 
Had in itself, smote me upon the forehead, 
No heavier blow, than of a pleasant breeze, 
Whereat the tremulous branches readily 
Did all of them bow downward towards that 

side 
Where its first shadow casts the Holy Moun- 
tain ; 
Yet not from their upright direction bent 
So that the little birds upon their tops 
Should cease the practice of their tunef ul art ; 
But, with full-throated joy, the hours of prime 
Singing received they in the midst of foliage 
That made monotonous burden to their rby mes, 
Even as from branch to branch it gathering 
swells, 
Through the pine forests on the shore of 

Chiassi, 
When iEolus unlooses the Sirocco. 
Already my slow steps had led me on 
Into the ancient wood so far, that I 
Could see no more the place where I had en- 
tered. 
And lo ! my further course cut off a river, 

Which, tow'rds the left hand, with its little 

waves, 
Bent down the grass, that on its margin sprang 
All waters that on earth most limpid are, 

Would seem to have within themselves some 

mixture, 
Compared with that, which nothing doth con- 
ceal, 
Although it moves on with a brown, brown cur- 
rent, 
Under the shade perpetual, that never 
Ray of the sun lets in, nor of the moon. 



BEATRICE. 

PROM DANTE. PURGATOKIO, XXX., XXXI. 

Even as the Blessed, at the final summons, 
Shall rise up quickened, each one from his grave, 
Wearing again the garments of the flesh, 

So, upon that celestial chariot, 

A hundred rose ad vocem lanti senis, 
Ministers and messengers of life eternal. 

They all were saying, " Be ned ictus qui wems," 
And scattering flowers above and round about, 
il Manibus o date Lilia plenis.'''' 

Oft have I seen, at the approach of day, 

The orient sky all stained with roseate hues, 
And the other heaven with light serene adorned, 

And the sun's face uprising, overshadowed, 
So that, by temperate influence of vapors. 
The eye sustained bis aspect for long while ; 



Thus in the bosom of a cloud of flowers, 
Which from those hands angelic were thrown 

up, 
And clown descended inside and without, 

With crown of olive o'er a snow-white veil, 
Appeared a lady, under a green mantle, 
Vested in colors of the living flame. 

Even as the snow, among the living rafters 
Upon the back of Italy, congeals, 
Blown on and beaten by Sclavonian winds, 

And then, dissolving, filters through itself, 
Whene'r the land, that loses shadow, breathes, 
Like as a taper melts before a fire, 

Even such I was, without a sigh or tear, 
Before the song of those who chime forever 
After the chiming of the eternal spheres ; 

But, when I heard m those sweet melodies 
Compassion for me, more than had they said, 
u O wherefore, lady, dost thou thus consume 
him ?" 

The ice, that was about my heart congealed, 
To air and water changed, and, in my anguish, 
Through lips and eyes came gushing from my 
breast. 



Confusion and dismay, together mingled, 

Forced such a feeble u Yes ! " out of my mouth, 
To understand it one had need of sight. 

Even as a cross-bow breaks, when 'tis discharged, 
Too tensely drawn the bow-string and the bow, 
And with less force the arrow hits the mark ; 

So I gave way beneath this heavy burden, 
Gushing forth into bitter tears and sighs, 
And the voice, fainting, flagged upon its passage. 



SPRING. 

FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES D'ORLEANS. 
XV. CENTURY. 

Gentle Spring ! in sunshine clad, 

Well dost thou thy power display ! 
For Winter maketh the light heart sad, 

And thou, thou makest the sad heart gay. 
He sees thee, and calls to his gloomy tram, 
The sleet, and the snow, and the wind, and the 

rain ; 
And they shrink away, and they flee in fear, 

When thy merry step draws near. 

Winter giveth the fields and the trees, so old, 

Their beards of icicles and snow ; 
And the rain, it raineth so fast and cold, 

We must cower over the embers low ; 
And, snugly housed from the wind and weather, 
Mope like birds that are changing feather. 
But the storm retires, and the sky grows clear, 

When thy merry step draws near. 

Winter maketh the sun in the gloomy sky 
Wrap him round with a mantle of cloud ; 
But, Heaven be praised, thy step is nigh ; 
Thou tearest away the mournful shroud, 
And the earth looks bright, and Winter surly, 
Who has toiled for naught both late and early, 
Is banished afar by the new-born year, 
When thy merry step draws near. 



THE CHILD ASLEEP. 

FROM THE FRENCH. 

Sweet babe ! true portrait of thy father's face, 
Sleep on the bosom that thy lips have pressed ! 

Sleep, little one ; and closely, gently place 
Thy drowsy eyelid on thy mother's breast. 



THE GRAVE.— KING CHRISTIAN. 



85 



Upon that tender eye, my little friend. 

Soft sleep shall eome. thar eometh not to me! 
1 watch to see thee, nourish thee, defend; 

T is sweet to wateh for thee, alone for thee! 



Awake, my hoy ! I tremble with affright ! 

Awake, and chase tins ratal thought ! Unclose 
Thine eye hut for one moment on the light ! 

Even at the price of thine, give me repose ! 



Hla arms fall down ; Bleep sits upon his brow ; Sweet error ! he but slept, I breathe again ; 

His eye is closed ; he sleeps, nor dreams of harm. Come, gentle dreams, the hour of sleep beguile '. 
Wore not his cheek the apple's ruddy glow, I O, when shall he, for whom 1 sigh in vain. 

Would yon not say he slept on Death's eold arm ? Beside me wateli to see thy waking smile ? 




So thou shalt in mould, dwell full cold. 



THE GRAVE. 

FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON. 

For thee was a house built 
Ere thou wast born. 
For thee was a mould meant 
Ere thou of mother earnest. 
But it is not made ready, 
Nor it- depth measured, 
Nor is it seen 
How long it shall be. 
Now I bring thea 
Where thou shalt be ; 
Now I shall measure thee, 
And the mould afterwards. 

Thy house is not 
Highly timber d. 

nhigh and low ; 
When thou art ther in. 
The heel-ways are low. 
The side-ways nnbigh. 
The roof is built 
Thy breast full n-h. 
So thou shalt in mould 
Dwell full cold, 
Dimly and dark. 

Doorless is that hous". 
And dark it is within : 
Ther? thou art fast detained 
And Death hath the k 



Loathsome is that earth-house, 
And grim within to dwell. 
There thou shalt dwell, 
And worms shall divide thee. 

Thus thou art laid, 
And lea vest thy friends 
Thou hast no friend, 
Who will come to thee, 
Who will ever see 
How that house pleaseth thee ; 
Who will ever open 
The door for thee, 
And descend after thee ; 
For soon thou art loathsome 
And hateful to see. 



KING CHRISTIAN. 

A NATIONAL BONG OF DENMAHK. 

WBOM THE DANISH OF JOHANNES BVALD. 

ClNG CHRISTIAN stood by the lofty mast 

In mist and smoke ; 
His sword was hammering BO 
Through Gothic helm and brain it passed; 
Then sank each hostile hulk and mast, 

In mist and smoke. 
" Fly ! " Bhonted they, "fly, he who can ! 
Who braves of Denmark's Christian 

The strok 



26 



THE HAPPIEST LAND. —THE BIRD AND THE SHIP. 



Nils Juel gave heed to the tempest's roar, 


THE WAVE. 


Now is the hour ! 




He hoisted his blood-red flag once more, 


FROM THE GERMAN OF TIEDGE. 


And smote upon the foe full sore, 




And shouted loud, through the tempest's roar, 


"Whither, thou turbid wave? 


" Now is the hour ! " 


Whither, with so much haste, 


" Fly ! " shouted they, " for shelter fly ! " 


As if a thief wert thou ? " 


Of Denmark's Juel who can defy 




The power ? " 


"I am the Wave of Life, 




Stained with my margin s dust ; 


North Sea ! a glimpse of Wessel rent 


From the struggle and the strife 


Thy murky sky ! 


Of the narrow stream I fly 


Then champions to thine arms were sent; 


To the Sea's immensity, 


Terror and Death glared where he went ; 


To wash from me the slime 


From the waves was heard a wail, that rent 


Of the muddy banks of Time." 


Thy murky sky ! 




From Denmark, thunders Tordenskiol', 




Let each to Heaven commend his soul, 




And fly ! 




Path of the Dane to fame and might ! 




Dark-rolling wave ! 


THE DEAD. 


Receive thy friend, who, scorning flight, 




Goes to meet danger with despite, 


FROM THE GERMAN OF STOCKMANN. 


Proudly as thou the tempest's might, 




Dark-rolling wave ! 


How they so softly rest, 


And amid pleasures and alarms, 


All they the holy ones, 


And war and victory, be thine arms 


Unto whose dwelling-place 


My grave ! 


Now doth my soul draw near ! 




How they so softly rest, 





All in their silent graves, 




Deep to corruption 


THE HAPPIEST LAND. 


Slowly down-sinking ! 




And they no longer weep, 


FROM THE GERMAN. 


Here, where complaint is still ! 




And they no longer feel, 
Here, where all gladness flies ! 


There sat one day in quiet, 


By an alehouse on the Rhine, 


And, by the cypresses 


Four hale and hearty fellows, 


Softly o'ershadowed, 


And drank the precious wine. 


Until the Angel 




Calls them, they slumber ! 


The landlord's daughter filled their cups, 




Abound the rustic board ; 




Then sat they all so calm and still, 




And spake not one rude word. 




But, when the maid departed, 




A Swabian raised his hand, 


THE BIRD AND THE SHIP. 


And cried, all hot and flushed with wine, 




"Long live the Swabian land ! 


FROM THE GERMAN OF MULLER. 


"The greatest kingdom upon earth 


" The rivers rush into the sea, 


Cannot with that compare ; 


By castle and town they go ; 


With all the stout and hardy men 


The winds behind them merrily 


And the nut-brown maidens there." 


Their noisy trumpets blow. 


" Ha ! " cried a Saxon, laughing, 


" The clouds are passing far and high, 


And dashed his beard with wine ; 


We little birds in them play ; 


" I had rather live in Lapland, 


And everything, that can sing and fly, 


Than that Swabian land of thine ! 


Goes with us, and far away. 


"The goodliest land on all this earth, 


"I greet thee, bonny boat ! Whither, or whence 


It is the Saxon land ! 


With thy fluttering golden band ? " — 


There have I as many maidens 


" I greet thee, little bird ! To the wide sea 


As fingers on this hand ! " 


I haste from the narrow land. 


" Hold your tongues! both Swabian and Saxon!" 


"Full and swollen is every sail ; 


A bold Bohemian cries ; 


I see no longer a hill, 


If there's a heaven upon this earth, 


I have trusted all to the sounding gale, 


In Bohemia it lies. 


And it will not let me stand still. 


" Th^re the tailor blows the flute, 


"And wilt thou, little bird, go with us? 


And the cobbler blows the horn, 


Thou mayest stand on the mainmast tall, 


And the miner blows the bugle, 
Over mountain gorge and bourn." 


For full to sinking is my house 


With merry companions all. " — 


And then the landlord's daughter 


" I need not and seek not company, 


Up to heaven raised her hand, 


Bonny boat, I can sing all alone ; 


And said : " Ye may no more contend, — 


For the mainmast tall too heavy am I, 


There lies the happiest land ! " 


Bonny boat, I have wings of my own. 



WHITHER— THE CASTLE BY THE SEA. 



37 



" High over the sails, high over the mast, 

Who shall gainsay these joys? 
When thy merry companions are still, at last, 

Thou shalt hear the sound of my voiee. 

'•Who neither may rest, nor listen may, 
God bless them every one ! 

1 dart away, in the bright blue day, 

And the golden fields of the sun. 

•• Thus do I sing my weary song, 
Wherever the four winds blow : 

And this same Bong, my whole life long. 
Neither Poet nor Printer may know." 



WHITHER ? 

FROM TUT. c.KKMAN OF MILLER. 

I BEAKS a hrooklet gushing 

Prom its rooky fountain near, 
Down into the valley rushing, 

S i fresh and wondrous clear. 

I know not what came o'er me, 

Nor who the counsel gave ; 
But I must hasten downward, 

All with my pilgrim-stave ; 

Downward, and ever farther, 

And ever the brook beside ; 
And ever fresher murmured, 

And ever clearer, the tide. 

Is this the way I was going ? 

Whither, O brooklet, say ! 
Thou hast, with thy soft murmur, 

Murmured my senses away. 

What do I say of a murmur ? 

That can no murmur be ; 
'T is the water-nymphs, that are singing 

Tneir roundelays under me. 

Let them sing, my friend, let them murmur, 

Ami wander merrily near ; 
Th? wheels of a mill are going 

In every brooklet clear. 



BEWARE ! 

FROM THE GERMAN'. 

I know a maiden fair to see, 

T<ike car.' ! 
She can both false and friendly be, 
lie ! Beware ! 

Trust her not. 
She is fooling thee ! 

Sh ■ has two eyes, so soft and brown, 
Take care ! 

. aide -glance and looks down, 
Beware ! 

-r her not. 
- fooling thee ! 

And she has hair of a golden hue, 

Take care ! 
And what she says, it is not true, 

!'• • ' ■ Bi ware ! 

Trust her not. 
Sh: is fooling th 



She has a bosom as white as snow, 

Take care ! 
She knows how much it is best to show, 

Beware! Beware! 

Trust her not, 
She is fooling thee ! 

She gives thee a garland woven fair, 

Take care ! 
It is a fool's-cap for thee to wear, 

Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not, 
She is fooling thee ! 



SONG OF THE BELL. 

FROM THE GERMAN. 

Bell ! thou soundest merrily, 
When the bridal party 

To the church doth hie ! 
Bell ! thou soundest solemnly, 
When, on Sabbath morning, 

Fields deserted lie ! 

Bell ! thou soundest merrily ; 
Tellest thou at evening, 

Bed-time draweth nigh ! 
Bell ! thou soundest mournfully, 
Tellest thou the bitter 

Parting hath gone by ! 

Say ! how canst thou mourn ? 
How canst thou rejoice ? 

Thou art but metal dull ! 
And yet all our sorrowings, 
And all our rejoicings. 

Thou dost feel them all ! 

God hath wonders many, 
Which we cannot fathom, 

Placed within thy form ! 
When the heart is sinking, 
Thou alone canst raise it. 

Trembling in the storm ! 



THE CASTLE BY THE SEA. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF IHI.ANI). 

"Hast thou seen that lordly castle, 

That Castle by the Sea ? 
Golden and red above it 

The clouds float gorgeously. 

"And fain it would stoop downward 

To the mirrored wave below ; 
And fain it would soar upward 

In the evening's crimson glow." 

■ " Well have I seen that castle, 

That Castle by the Sea, 
And the moon above it standing, 

And the mist rise solemnly." 

"The winds and the waves of ocean, 

Had they a merry chime? 
Didst thou hear, from those lofty chambers, 

The harp and the minstrel's rhyme J " 

" The winds and the waves of ocean. 

They rested quietly. 
But I heard on the gale a sound of wail, 

And tears came to mine <. 



'28 



THE BLACK KNIGHT.— L'EN VOL 



" A-nd sawest thou on the turrets 
The King and his royal bride ? 

And the wave of their crimson mantles ? 
And the golden crown of pride ? " 

" Led they not forth, in rapture, 

A beauteous maiden there ? 
Resplendent as the morning sun, 

Beaming with golden hair ? " 

' ' Well saw I the ancient parents, 

Without the crown of pride ; 
They were moving slow, in weeds of woe, 

No maiden was by their side ! " 



THE BLACK KNIGHT. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. 

'T WAS Pentecost, the Feast of Gladness, 
When woods and fields put off all sadness, 

Thus began the King and spake 
" So from the halls 
Of ancient Hofburg's walls, 

A luxuriant Spring shall break. " 

Drums and trumpets echo loudly, 
Wave the crimson banners proudly, 

Prom balcony the King looked on ; 
In the play of spears, 
Fell all the cavaliers, 

Before the monarch's stalwart son. 

To the barrier of the fight 
Rode at last a sable Knight. 

"Sir Knight! your name and scutcheon, 
say !" 
' ' Should I speak it here, 
Ye would stand aghast with fear ; 

I am a Prince of mighty sway ! " 

When he rode into the lists, 

The arch of heaven grew black with mists, 

And the castle 'gan to rock ; 
At the first blew, 
Fell the youth from saddle-bow, 

Hardly rises from the shock ; 

Pipe and viol call the dances, 

Torch-light through the high halls glances ; 

Waves a mighty shadow in ; 
With manner bland 
Doth ask the maiden's hand, 

Doth with her the dance begin , 

Danced in sable iron sark, 
Danced a measure weird and dark, 

Coldly clasped her limbs around ; 
From breast and hair 
Down fall from her the fair 

Flowerets, faded, to the ground. 

To the sumptuous banquet came 
Every Knight and every Dame ; 

'Twixt son and daughter all distraught, 
With mournful mind 
The ancient King reclined, 

Gazed at them in silent thought. 

Pale the children both did look, 
But the guest a beaker took : 

" Golden wine will make you whole ! " 
The children drank. 
Gave many a courteous thank : 

" O, that draught was very cool ! " 



Each the father's breast embraces, 
Son and daughter ; and their faces 

Colorless grow utterly ; 
Whichever way 
Looks the fear-struck father gray, 

He beholds his children die. 

u Woe ! the blessed children both 
Takest thou in the joy of youth ; 

Take me, too, the joyless father ! ' 
Spake the grim Guest, 
From his hollow, cavernous breast 

' • Roses in the spring I gather ! " 



SONG OF THE SILENT LAND. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF SALIS. 

Into the Silent Land ! 

Ah ! who shall lead us thither ? 

Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather, 

And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand. 

Who leads us with a gentle hand 

Thither, O thither, 

Into the Silent Land ? 

Into the Silent Land ! 

To you, ye boundless regions 

Of all perfection ! Tender morning visions 

Of beauteous souls ! The Future's pledge and 

band ! 
Who in Life's battle firm doth stand, 
Shall bear Hope's tender blossoms 
Into the Silent Land ! 

O Land ! O Land ! 

For all the broken-hearted 

The mildest herald by our fate allotted, 

Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand 

To lead us with a gentle hand 

To the land of the great Departed, 

Into the Silent Land ! 



L' ENVOI. 

Ye voices, that arose 

After the Evening's close, 

And whispered to my restless heart repose ! 

Go, breathe it in the ear 

Of all who doubt and fear, 

And say to them, " Be of good cheer ! " 

Ye sounds, so low and calm, 

That in the groves of balm 

Seemed to me like an angel's psalm ! 

Go, mingle yet once more 

With the perpetual roar 

Of the pine forest, dark and hoar ! 

Tongues of the dead, not lost, 
Bnt speaking from death's frost, 
Like fiery tongues at Pentecost ! 

Glimmer, as funeral lamps, 
Amid the chills and damps 
Of the vast plain where Death encamps ! 



THE SKELETON IX ARMOR. 



39 



BALLADS AXD OTHER POEMS. 







w- 



Round Tower at Newport. 



THE SKELETON IN ARMOR. 

'• Speak ! speak ! thou fearful guest ! 

with thy hollow breast 
Still in rude armor drest, 

t Somest t'> daunt me ! 
Wrapt not in Eastern balms, 
But with thy fleahless palms 
- if asking alms, 
Why < t< » ~t thou hamit me '.- " 

Then, from those cavernous eyes 

Pale fl 

As when the Northern skies 

•i in December ; 
And. like the water's flow 
Under December s snow, 
Came a dull voice of woe 
From the heart's chamber. 

" T was a Viking ol 1 ! 

imgh manifold, 
: i 1 1 in song has told, 
N B iga taught thee ! 
bat in thy \ 
■ tale rehearse, 
1 man's curse ; 
For this 1 sought thee. 

bhernland, 

By th • wild Baltic's strand, 

I. with my childish hand. 

X i son ; 

And, with my skat's fast-bound, 
Bkimmed the half-frozen Sound. 
r whimpering hound, 

Trembled to walk on. 

frozen lair 
-. le grisly bear. 
While from my path the hare 

iike a sha-i 
Oft through the forest dark 
Followed the were-wolf s bark, 
Until the soaring 1 irk 
- Dg from the meadow. 



" But when I older grew, 
Joining a corsair's ere a-, 
O'er the dark sea I flew 

With the marauders. 
Wild was the life we led ; 
Many the souls that sped, 
Many the hearts that bled, 

By our stern orders. 

" Many a wassail-bout 
Wore the long Winter out ; 
Often our midnight shout 

Set the cocks crowing, 
As we the Berserk's tale 
Measured in cups of ale, 
Draining the oaken pail, 

Filled to o'erflowing. 



" Once as I told in glee 
Tales of the stormy sea, 
S >f t eyes did gaze on me, 

Burning yet tender ; 
And as the white stars shine 
On the dark Norway pine, 
On that dark heart of min ■ 

Fell their soft splendor. 

11 T wooed the blue-eyed maid, 
Vi siding, yet half afraid, 
And in the forest's shade 

Our vows were plighted 
Under its loosened 
Fluttered her little breast, 
Li' e l ids within their nest 

By the hawk frighted. 

t in her father's hall 
- gleamed upon the wall, 
rag the minstrels all, 
Chanting hi- glory : 
When of old Hfldebrand 
his daughter's I 
■1 the minstrels - 
T • hear my story. 



THE SKELETON IN ARMOR. 



" While the brown ale he quaffed, 


"And as to catch the gale 


Loud then the champion laughed, 


Round veered the flapping sail, 


And as the wind-gusts waft 


Death ! was the helmsman's hail, 


The sea-foam brightly, 


Death without quarter ! 


So the loud laugh of scorn, 


Mid-ships with iron keel 


Out of those lips unshorn, 


Struck w r e her ribs of steel ; 


From the deep drinking-horn 


Down her black hulk did reel 


Blew the foam lightly. 


Through the black water ! 


' ' She was a Prince's child, 


"As with his wings aslant, 


I but a Viking wild, 


Sails the fierce cormorant, 


And though she blushed and smiled, 


Seeking some rocky haunt, 


I was discarded ! 


With his prey laden, 


Should not the dove so white 


So toward the open main, 


Follow the sea-mew's flight, 


Beating to sea again, 


Why did they leave that night 


Through the wild hurricane, 


Her nest unguarded ? 


Bore I the maiden. 


' ' Scarce had I put to sea, 


" Three weeks we westward bore, 


Bearing the maid with me, 


And when the storm was o'er, 


Fairest of all was she 


Cloud-] ike we saw the shore 


Among the Norsemen ! 


Stretching to leeward ; 


When on the white sea-strand, 


There for my lady's bower 


Waving his armed hand, 


Built I the lofty tower, 


Saw we old Hildebrand, 


Which, to this very hour, 


With twenty horsemen. 


Stands looking seaward. 


"Then launched they to the blast, 


" There lived we many years ; 


Bent like a reed each mast, 


Time dried the maiden's tears ; 


Yet we were gaining fast, 


She had forgot her fears, 


When the wind failed us ; 


She was a mother ; 


And with a sudden flaw 


Death closed her mild blue eyes, 


Came round the gusty Skaw, 


Under that tower she lies ; 


So that our foe we saw 


Ne'er shall the sun arise 


Laugh as he hailed us. 


On such another ! 




The skipper he stood beside the helm. 



WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 



31 



" Still grew my bosom then. 
Still as a stagnant ion ! 
Hateful to me were men, 

The sunlight hateful ! 
In the vast forest here, 
Clad in my warlike gear, 
Fell 1 upon my spear, 

O. death was grateful ! 



11 Tims, seamed with many sears. 
Bursting these prison bars, 
Up to its native stars 

My soul ascended ! 
There from the flowing bowl 
Deep drinks the warrior's soul. 
Skoal/ to the Northland I skoal P 

Thus the tale ended. 




At daybreak, on the bleak sea -beach. 



THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 

It was the schooner Hesperus, 

That sailed the wintry sea ; 
And the skipper had taken his little daughter, 

To bear him company. 

Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, 
Her eh jekfl like the dawn of day, 

And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, 
That ope in the month of May. 

The skipper he stood beside the helm, 

His pipe was in his mouth, 
And he watched how the veering flaw did blow 

T.ie smoke now West, now South. 

Then up and spake an old Sailor, 

Hid saUed to the Spanish Main, 
"I pray thee, put into yonder port, 

For I fear a hurricane. 

" Last night, the moon had a golden ring, 

And to-night no moon we - 
The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe, 

And a scornful laugh laughed he. 

Colder and louder blew the wind, 

A i, r ale from the Northeast, 
The snow ft 11 hissing in the brine. 

And the billows frothed like yeast. 

Down came the storm, and smote amain 

The vessel in its strength ; 
She shuddered and paused, like a frightened steed, 

Then leaped her cable's length. 

" Come hither ! come hither ! my little daughter, 

And do not tremble so ; 
For I can weather the roughest gale 

That ever wind did blow." 

He wrapped her warm ii his seaman's coat 

Against the (tinging Mast ; 
He cut a rope from a broken spar, 

And bound her to the mast. 



" O father ! I hear the church-bells ring, 

O say, what may it be V " 
11 'T is a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast ! " — 

And he steered for the open sea. 

" O father ! I hear the sound of guns, 
O say, what may it be ? " 
" Some ship in distress, that cannot live 
In such an angry sea !'' 

" O father ! I see a gleaming light, 

O say. what may it be ? " 
But the father answered never a word, 

A frozen corpse was he. 

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, 
With his face turned to the skies, 

The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow 
On his fixed and glassy eyes. 

Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed 

That saved she might be ; 
And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave, 

On the Lake of Galilee . 

And fast through the midnight dark and drear, 
Through the whistling sleet and snow, 

Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept 
Tow'rds the Reef of Norman's Woe. 

And ever the fitful gnats between 

A sound came from the land ; 
It was the sound of the trampling surf 

On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. 

The breakers were right beneath her bows, 

She drifted a dreary wreck, 
And a whooping billow swept the crew 

Like icicles from her deck. 

She struck where the white and fleecy waves 

Looked soft as carded wool, 
But the cruel rocks, they gored her side 

Like the horns of an angry bull. 



S2 



THE LUCK OF EDENHALL —THE ELECTED KNIGHT. 



Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, 
With tlie masts went by the board ; 

Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank, 
Ho ! ho ! the breakers roared ! 

At daybreak, on the black sea-beach, 

A fisherman stood aghast, 
To see the form of a maiden fair, 

Lashed close to a drifting mast. 

The salt sea was frozen on her breast, 

The salt tears in her eyes ; 
And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, 

On the billows fall and rise. 

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, 
In the midnight and the snow ! 

Christ save us all from a death like this, 
On the reef of Norman's Woe ? 



THE LUCK OF EDENHALL. 



FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. 

Of Edenhall, the youthful Lord 

Bids sound the festal trumpet's call ; 

He rises at the banquet board, 

And cries, 'mid the drunken revellers all, 

"Now bring me the Luck of Edenhall ! " 

The butler hears the words with pain, 
The house's oldest seneschal, 
Takes slow from its silken cloth again 
The drinking glass of crystal tall ; 
They call it The Luck of Edenhall. 

Then said the Lord : " This glass to praise, 

Fill with red wine from Portugal ! " 

The gray beard with trembling hand obeys ; 

A purple light shines over all, 

It beams from the Luck of Edenhall. 

Then speaks the Lord, and waves it light : 
"This glass of flashing crystal tall 
Gave to my sires the Fountain-Sprite ; 
She wrote in it, If this glass doth fall, 
Farewell then, Luck of Edenhall ! 

"'T was right a goblet the Fate should be 
Of the joyous race of Edenhall ! 
Deep draughts drink we right willingly ; 
And willingly ring, with merry call, 
Kling ! klang ! to the Luck of Edenhall ! " 

First rings it deep, and full, and mild, 
Like to the song of a nightingale ; 
Then like the roar of a torrent wild ; 
Then mutters at last like the thunder's fall, 
The glorious Luck of Edenhall. 

" For its keeper takes a race of might, 

The fragile goblet of crystal tall ; 

It has lasted longer than is right ; 

Kling ! klang ! — with a harder blow than all 

WiU I try the Luck of Edenhall.! " 

As the goblet ringing flies apart, 
Suddenly cracks the vaulted hall ; 
And through the rift, the wild flames start ; 
The guests in dust are scattered all, 
With the breaking Luck of Edenhall ! 

In storms the foe, with fire and sword ; 
He in the night had scaled the wall, 
Slain by the sword lies the youthful Lord, 
But holds in his hand the crystal tall, 
The shattered Luck of Edenhall. 



On the morrow the butler gropes alone, 
The graybeard in the desert hall, 
He seeks his Lord's burnt skeleton, 
He seeks in the dismal ruin's fall 
The shards of the Luck of Edenhall. 

"The stone wall," saith he, " doth fall aside, 
Down must the stately columns fall ; 
Class is this earth's Luck and Pride ; 
In atoms shall fall this earthly ball 
One day like the Luck of Edenhall ! " 



THE ELECTED KNIGHT. 

FROM THE DANISH. 

Sir Oltjf he rideth over the plain, 

Full seven miles broad and seven miles wide, 
But never, ah never can meet with the man 

A tilt with him dare ride. 

He saw under the hillside 

A Knight full well equipped ; 
His steed was black, his helm was barred ; 

He was riding at full speed. 

He wore upon his spurs 

Twelve little golden birds ; 
Anon he spurred his steed with a clang, 

And there sat all the birds and sang. 

He wore upon his mail 

Twelve little golden wheels ; 
Anon in eddies the wild wind blew, 

And round and round the wheels they flew. 

He wore before his breast 

A lanca that was poised in rest ; 
And it was sharper than diamond- stone, 

It made Sir Oluf 's heart to groan. 

He wore upon his helm 

A wreath of ruddy gold ; 
And that gave him the Maidens Three, 

The youngest was fair to behold. 

Sir Oluf questioned the Knight eftsoon 
If he were come from heaven down ; 

"Art thou Christ of Heaven," quoth he, 
"So will I yield me unto thee." 

"I am not Christ the Great, 

Thou shalt not yield thee yet ; 
I am an Unknown Knight, 

Three modest Maidens have me bedight." 

- ' Art thou a Knight elected, 
And have three Maidens thee bedight ; 

So shalt thou ride a tilt this day, 
For all the Maidens' honor !'" 

The first tilt they together rode 
They put their steeds to the test ; 

The second tilt they together rode, 
They proved their manhood best, 

The third tilt they together rode, 

Neither of them would yield ; 
The fourth tilt they together rode, 

They both fell on the field. 

Now lie the lords upon the plain, 
And their blood runs unto death ; 

Now sit the Maidens in the high tower, 
The youngest sorrow's till death. 



THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER. 



33 



THE CHILD REIST OF THE LORD'S SUPPER. 



l-KOM THE SWEDISH OF IMMHU' TEGNEK. 



Pentecost, day of rejoicing, had come. The 

church or the village 
Gleaming stood in the morning's sheen. On the 

spire of the belfry, 
Decked with a brazen cook, the friendly flames 

of th • Spring-sun 
Glanced like the tongues of fire, beheld by Apos- 
tles aforetime. 
Clear was the heaven and blue, and May, with her 

Cap crowned with n - 
Stood in her holiday dross in the fields, and the 

wind and the brooklet 
Murmured gladness and peace, God's-peace ! i 

with lips rosy-tinted 
Whispered the race of the flowers, and merry on 

balancing branches 
Birds were singing their carol, a jubilant hvmnto 

the Hig: 
Swept and clean was the churchyard. Adorned 

like a leaf-woven arbor 
Stood its old-fashioned gate ; and within upon 

each cross of iron 
Hung was a fragrant garland, new twined by the 

hands of affection. 
Even the dial, that stood on a mound among the 

departed, 
(There full a hundred years had it stood), was 

llished with blossoms. 
Like to the patriarch hoary, the sage of his kith 

and the hamlet, 
Who on his birthday is crowned by children and 

children's children, 
So stood the ancient prophet, and mute with his 

pencil of iron 

iblet of stone, and measured the 

time and its changes. 
While all around at his feet, an eternity sham- 
ed in quiet 
Also the church within was adorned, for this was 

the season 
Wiien the young, their parents' hope, and the 

I -ones of heaven. 
Should at the foot of the altar renew the vows of 

their baptism. 
Therefore each nook and corner was swept and 

cleaned, and the dust was 
Blown from the walls and ceiling, and from the ' 

oil-painted benches. 
Tiiere stood the church like a garden ; the Feast 

of the L at'y Pavilions 
Saw we in living presentment. From noble arms 

on the church wall 
Grew forth a cluster of leaves, and the preacher's 

pulpit of oak-wood 
Budded once more anew, as aforetime the rod be- 
\aron. 

n was the Bible with leaves, and 

the dove, washed with >ilver. 

anopy fa-tened, had on it a necklace 

of wind-fli 

n front nf t ie choir, round the altar-piece 

painti d by Hdrberg, 

a garland gigantic ; and bright-curling 

Peeped, like the sun from a cloud, from out of 
the shadowy leaf-work. 

:<• w-polished, blinked 
from the • ■■ 
And I - ,ere were lilies of Pcl 

in the sockets. 
3 



Loud rang the bells already ; the thronging 
crowd was assembled 

Par from vail sys and hills, to list to the holy 
preaching. 

Hark ! then roll forth at once the mighty tones 
of the organ. 

Hover like voices from God, aloft like invisible 
spirits. 

Like as Elias in heaven, when he cast from off 
him his mantle. 

So cast off the soul its garments of earth ; and 
with one a 

Chimed in the congregation, and sang an anthem 
immortal 

Of the sublime Wallin, of David's harp in the 
North-land 

Tuned to the choral of Luther ; the song on its 
might}' pinions 

Tookevery living souL and lifted it gently toheaven 

And each face did shine like the Hoky One's face 
upon Tabor. 

Lo ! there entered then into the church the Rev- 
erend Teacher. 

Father he bight and he was in the parish ; a 
Christianly plainness 

Clothed from his head to his feet the old man of 
seventy winters. 

Friendly was he to behold, and glad as the herald- 
ing angel 

Walked he among the crowds, but still a contem- 
plative grandeur 

Lay on his forehead as clear as on moss-covered 
gravestoue a sunbeam. 

As in his inspiration (an evening twilight that 
faintly 

Gleams in the human soul, even now, from the 
day of creation) 

Th' Artist, the friend of heaven, imagines Saint 
John when in Patmos, 

Gray, with his eyes uplifted to heaven, so seemed 
then the old man ; 

Such was the glance of his eye, and such were his 
tresses of silver. 

All the congregation arose in the pews that were 
numbered. 

But with a cordial look, to the right and the 
left hand, the old man 

Nodding all hail and peace, disappeared in the in- 
nermost chancel. 

Simply and solemnly now proceeded the Chris- 
tian service. 

Singing and prayer, and at last an ardent dis- 
course from the old man. 

Many a moving word and warning, that out of 
the heart came. 

Fell like the dew of the morning, like manna on 
those in tin- desert 

Then, when all was finished, the Teacher re 
entered the chancel, 

Followed therein by the young. The boys on the 
right had their places, 

Delicate figures, with close curling hair and 
cheeks rosy blooming. 

Bat on the left o e stood the tremulous 

lilies, 

i with the blushing light of \)i<- dawn, the 
diffident maidens, 

Folding their bands in prayer, and their eyes cast 
. n on th- pavement 



34 



THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER. 



Now came, with question and answer, the cate- 
chism. In the beginning 

Answered the children with troubled and falter- 
ing voice, but the old man's 

Glances of kindness encouraged them soon, and 
the doctrines eternal 

Flowed, like the waters of fountains, so clear from 
lips unpolluted. 

Each time the answer was closed, and as oft as 
they named the Redeemer, 

Lowly louted the boys, and lowly the maidens all 
courtesied. 

Friendly the Teacher stood, like an angel of light 
there among them, 

And to the children explained the holy, the high- 
est, in few words, 

Thorough, yet simple and clear, for sublimity 
always is simple, 

Both in sermon and song, a child can seize on its 
meaning. 

E'en as the green-growing bud unfolds when 
Springtide approaches, 

Leaf by leaf puts forth, and warmed, by the 
radiant sunshine, 

Blushes with purple and gold, till at last the per- 
fected blossom 

Opens its odorous chalice, and rocks with its 
crown in the breezes, 

So was unfolded here the Christian lore of salva- 
tion, 

Line by line from the soul of childhood. The 
fathers and mothers 

Stood behind them in tears, and were glad at the 
well-worded answer. 

Now went the old man up to the altar ; — and 

straightway transfigured 
(So did it seem unto me) was then the affectionate 

Teacher. 
Like the Lord's Prophet sublime, and awful as 

Death and as Judgment 
Stood he, the God-commissioned, the soul-search- 
er, earthward descending. 
Glances, sharp as a sword, into hearts that to him 

were transparent 
Shot he ; his voice was deep, was low like the 

thunder afar off. 
So on a sudden transfigured he stood there, he 

spake and he questioned. 



' ' This is the faith of the Fathers, the faith the 

Apostles delivered, 
This is moreover the faith whereunto I baptized 

you, while still ye 
Lay on your mother's breasts, and nearer the port- 
als of heaven. 
Slumbering received you then the Holy Church in 

its bosom ; 
Wakened from sleep are ye now, and the light in 

its radiant splendor 
Downward rains from the heaven ; — to-day on the 

threshold of childhood 
Kindly she frees you again, to examine and make 

your election 
For she knows naught of compulsion, and only 

conviction desireth. 
This is the hour of your trial, the turning-point 

of existence, 
Seed for the coming days ; without revocation 

departeth 
Now from your lips the confession ; Bethink ye, 

before ye make answer ! 
Think not, O think not with guile to deceive the 

questioning Teacher. 
Sharp is his eye to-day, and a curse ever rests 

upon falsehood. 
Enter not with a lie on Life's journey ; the multi- 
tude hears you, 
Brothers and sisters and parents, what dear upon 

earth is and holy 



Standeth before your sight as a witness ; the 
Judge everlasting 

Looks from the sun down upon you, and angels in 
waiting beside him 

Grave your confession in letters of fire upon tab- 
lets eternal. 

Thus, then, — believe ye in God, in the Father 
who this world created ? 

Him who redeemed it, the Son, and the Spirit 
where both are united ? 

Will ye promise me here, (a holy promise !) to 
cherish 

God more than all things earthly, and every man 
as a brother ? 

Will ye promise me here, to confirm your faith 
by your living, 

Th' heavenly faith of affection ! to hope, to for- 
give, and to suffer, 

Be what it may your condition, and walk before 
God in uprightness ? 

Will ye promise me this before God and man ?"— 
With a clear voice 

Answered the young men Yes ! and Yes ! with 
lips softly -breathing 

Answered the maidens eke. Then dissolved from 
the brow of the Teacher 

Clouds with the lightnings therein, and he spake 
in accents more gentle, 

Soft as the evening's breath ; as harps by Baby- 
lon's rivers. 

" Hail, then, hail to you all ! To the heirdom 

of heaven be ye welcome ! 
Children no more from this day, but by covenant 

brothers and sisters ! 
Yet, — for what reason not children? Of such is 

the kingdom of heaven. 
Here upon earth an assemblage of children, in 

heaven one Father, 
Ruling them all as his household, — forgiving in 

turn and chastising, 
That is of human life a picture, as Scripture has 

taught us. 
Blest are the pure before God ! Upon purity and 

upon virtue 
Resteth the Christian Faith ; she herself from on 

high is descended. 
Strong as a man and pure as a child, is the sum 

of the doctrine, 
Which the Divine One taught, and suffered and 

died on the cross for. 
O, as ye wander this day from childhood's sacred 

asylum 
Downward and ever downward, and deeper in 

Age's chill vajley, 
O, how soon will ye come, — too soon ! — and long 

to turn backward 
Up to its hill-tops again, to the sun-illumined. 

where Judgment 
Stood like a father before you, and Pardon, clad 

like a mother, 
Gave you her hand to kiss, and the loving heart 

was forgiven, 
Life was a play and your hands grasped after the 

roses of heaven ! 
Seventy years have I lived already ; the Father 

eternal 
Gave me gladness and care; but the loveliest 

hours of existence, 
When I have steadfastly gazed in their eyes, I 

have instantly known them, 
Known them all again;— they were my child- 
hood's acquaintance. 
Therefore take from henceforth, as guides in the 

paths of existence, 
Prayer, with her eyes raised to heaven, and Inno- 
cence, bride of man's childhood. 
Innocence, child beloved, is a guest from the 

world of the blessed, 
Beautiful, and in her hand a lily ; on life's roar- 
ing billows 



THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER. 



35 



Swings she in safety, sheheedeth them not, in the 
ship she is sleeping. 

Calmly she gazes around in the turmoil of men ; 
in the desert 

Angels descend and minister unto her ; she her- 
self knoweth 

Naught of her glorious attendance ; but follows 
faithful and humble. 

Follows so long as she may her friend ; O do not 
reject her, 

For she comet h from God and she holdeth the 
keys of the heavens. — 

Prayer is Innocence' friend; and willingly flieth 
incessant 

'Tsvixt the earth and the sky, the earner-pigeon 
of heaven. 

Son of Eternity, fettered in Time, and an exile. 

the Spirit- 
Tugs at his chains evermore, and struggles like 
flame ever upward. 

Still he recalls with emotion his Father's mani- 
fold mansions. 

Thinks of the land of his fathers, where blos- 
somed more freshly the flowerets. 

Shone a more beautiful sun, and he played with 
the winged angels. 

Then grows the earth too narrow, too close ; and 
homesick for heaven 

Longs the wanderer again ; and the Spirit's long- 
ings are worship ; 

Worship is ealled his most beautiful hour, and its 
tongue is entreaty. 

Ah ! when the infinite burden of life descendeth 
upon us. 

Crushes to earth our hope, and, under the earth, 
in the graveyard. 

Then it is good to pray unto God ; for his sorrow- 
ing children 

Turns he ne'er from his door, but he heals and 
helps and consoles them. 

Yet is it better to pray when all things are pros- 
perous with us, 

Pray in fortunate days, for life's most beautiful 
Fortune 

Kneels before the Eternal's throne; and with 
hands interfolde 1, 

Praises thankful and moved the only giver of 

- '!.^ r S, 

Or do ye know, ye children, one blessing that 

conies not from Heaven ? 
What has mankind forsooth, the poor ! that it has 

not received ? 
Therefore, fall in the dust and pray ! The 

seraphs adoring 
Cover with pinions six their face in the glory of 

him who 
Hung his masonry pendant on naught, when the 

world he created. 
Earth declareth his might, and the firmament 

otters his gl try. 
Races blossom and die, and stars fall downward 

from heaven. 
Downward like withered leaves ; at the last stroke 

of midnight, millenniums 
Lay themselves down at his feet, and he sees 

them, but counts them as nothing. 
Who shall stand in his presence? Toe wrath of 

the judge is terrific. 
Casting the insolent down at a glance. When he 

iks in his anger 
Hillocks skip like the kid, and mountains leap 

like the roebuck. 
Y< t— why are ye afraid, ye children P This aw- 
ful avenger. 
Ah ! is a merciful God ! God's voice was not in 

the earthquake, 
N • in the fire, nor the storm, but it was in the 

whispering bret 
Lo.e is the root of creation; God's essence; 

worlds without number 



Lie in his bosom like children ; he made them for 

this purpose only. 
Only to love and to be loved again, he breathed 

forth his spirit 
J Into the slumbering dust, and upright standing, 

it laid its 
Hand on its heart, and felt it was warm with a 

flame out of heaven. 
Quench, quench not that flame ! It is the 

breath of your being, 
i Love is life, but hatred is death Not father, nor 

mother 
Loved you, as God has loved you ; for 'twas that 

you may be happy 
Cave he his only Son. When he bowed down his 

head in the death-hour 
Solemnized Love it s triumph ; the sacrifice then 

was completed. 
Lo ! then was rent on a sudden the veil of the tem- 
ple, dividing 
Earth and heaven apart, and the dead from their 

sepulchres rising 
Whispered with pallid lips and low in the ears of 

each other 
Th' answer, but dreamed of before, to creation's 

enigma. — Atonement ! 
Depths of Love arc Atonement's depths, for Love 

is Atonement. 
Therefore, child of mortality love thou the 

merciful Father ; 
Wish what the Holy One wishes, and not from 

fear, but affection ; 
Fear is the virtue of slaves ; but the heart that 

loveth is willing ; 
Perfect was before God, and perfect is Love, 

and Love only. 
Lovest thou God as thou oughtest, then lovest 

thou likewise thy brethren ; 
One is the sun in heaven, and one, only one, is 

Love also. 
Bears not each human figure the godlike stamp 

on his forehead? 
Readest thou not in his face thine origin ? Is he 

not sailing 
Lost like thyself on an ocean unknown, and is he 

not guided 
By the same stars that guide thee ? Why shouldst 

thou hate then thy brother ? 
Hateth he thee, forgive ! For 't is sweet to stam- 
mer one letter 
Of the Eternal's language ; — on earth it is called 

Forgiveness ! 
Knowest thou Him, who forgave, with the crown 

of thorns on his temples ? 
Earnestly prayed for his foes, for his murderers ? 

Say. dost thou know him ? 
| Ah ! thou confessest his name, so follow likewise 

his example. 
Think of thy brother no ill, but throw a veil over 

his failings. 
Guide the erring aright ; for the good, the heav- 
enly shepherd 
Took the lost lamb in his arms, and bore it back 

to its mother. 
This is the fruit, of Love, and it is by its fruits 

that we know it. 
Love is the creature's welfare with God ; but 

Love among mortals 
Is but an endless sigh ! He longs, and endures, 

and stands waiting. 
Suffers and yet rejoices, and smiles with tears on 

his eyelids. 
Hope, — so is called open earth, his recompense,— 

Hope, the befriending, 
Does what she can, for she points evermore up to 

heaven, and faithful 
Plunges her anchor's peak in the depths of the 

grave, and beneath it 
Paints a more beautiful world, a dim, but a sweet 

play of shadows I 



36 



THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER. 



Races, better than we, have leaned on her waver- 
ing promise, 
Having naught else but Hope. Then praise we 

our Father in heaven, 
Him, who has given us more ; for to us has Hope 

been transfigured, 
Groping no longer' in night ; she is Faith, she is 

living assurance. 
Faith is enlightened Hope ; she is light, is the eye 

of affection, 
Dreams of the longing interprets, and carves 

their visions iu marble. 
Faith is the sun of life ; and her countenance 

shines like the Hebrew's, 
For she has looked upon God; the heaven on its 

stable foundation 
Draws she with chains down to earth, and the 

New Jerusalem sinketh 
Splendid with portals twelve in golden vapors 

descending. 
There enraptured she wanders, and looks at the 

figures majestic, 
Fears not the winged crowd, in the midst of them 

all is her homestead. 
Therefore love and believe ; for works will follow 

spontaneous 
Even as day does the sun ; the Right from the 

Good is an offspring, 
Love in a bodily shape ; and Christian works are 

no more than 
Animate Love and faith, as flowers are the ani- 
mate Springtide. 
Works do follow us all unto God ; there stand 

and bear witness 
Not what they seemed, — but what they were 

only. Blessed is he who 
Hears their confession secure ; they are mute 

upon earth until death's hand 
Opens the mouth of the silent. Ye children, 

does Death e'er alarm you ? 
Death is the brother of Love, twin-brother is he, 

and is only 
More austere to behold. With a kiss upon lips 

that are fading 
Takes he the soul and departs, and, rocked in the 

arms of affection, 
Places the ransomed child, new born, 'fore the 

face of its father. 
Sounds of his coming already I hear, — see dimly 

his pinions, 
Swart as the night, but with stars strewn upon 

them ! I fear not before him. 
Death is only release, and in mercy is mute. On 

his bosom 
Freer breathes, in its coolness, my breast; and 

face to face standing 
Look I on God as he is, a sun unpolluted by vapors ; 
Look on the light of the ages I loved, the spirits 

majestic, 
Nobler, better than I ; they stand by the throne 

all transfigured, 
Vested in white, and with harps of gold, and are 

singing an anthem, 
Writ in the climate of heaven, in the language 

spoken by angels. 
You, in like manner, ye children beloved, he one 

day shall gather, 
Never forgets he the weary ; — then welcome, ye 

loved ones, hereafter ! 
Meanwhile forget not the keeping of vows, for- 
get not the promise, 
Wander from holiness onward to holiness ; earth 

shall ye heed not ; 
Earth is but dust and heaven is light ; I have 

pledged you to heaven. 
God of the universe, hear me ! thou fountain of 

Love everlasting, 
Hark to the voice of thy servant ! I send up my 

prayer to thy heaven ! 
Let me hereafter not miss at thy throne one spirit 

of all these, 



Whom thou hast given me here ! I have loved 

them all like a father. 
May they bear witness for me, that I taught 

them the way of salvation, 
Faithful, so far as I knew, of thy word ; again 

may they know me, 
Fall on their Teacher's breast, and before thy 

face may I place them, 
Pure as they now are, but only more tried, and 

exclaiming with giadness, 
Father, lo ! I am here, and the children, whom 

thou hast given me !" 

Weeping he spake in these words ; and now at 
the beck of the old man 

Knee against knee they knitted a wreath round 
the altar's enclosure. 

Kneeling he read then the prayers of the con- 
secration, and softly 

With him the children read ; at the close, with 
tremulous accents, 

Asked he the peace of Heaven, a benediction 
upon them. 

Now should have ended his task for the day ; the 
following Sunday 

Was for the young appointed to eat of the Lord's 
holy Supper. 

Sudden, as struck from the clouds, stood the 
Teacher silent and laid his 

Hand on his forehead, and cast his looks upward ; 
while thoughts high and holy 

Flew through the midst of his soul, and his eyes 
glanced with wonderful brightness. 

"On the next Sunday, who knows ! perhaps I 
shall rest in the graveyard ! 

Some one perhaps of yourselves, a lily broken un- 
timely, 

Bow down his head to the earth ; why delay I ? 
the hour is accomplished. 

Warm is the heart ; — I will ! for to-day grows 
the harvest of heaven. 

What I began accomplish I now ; what failing 
therein is 

I, the old man, will answer to God and the rever- 
end father. 

Say to me only, ye children, ye denizens new- 
come in heaven, 

Are ye ready this day to eat of the bread of 
Atonement V 

What it denobeth, that know ye full well, I have 
told it you often. 

Of the new covenant symbol it is, of Atonement 
a token, 

'Stablished between earth and heaven. Man by 
■ his sins and transgressions 

Far has wandered from God, from his essence. 
'T was in the beginning 

Fast by the Tree of Knowledge he fell, and it 
hangs its crown o'er the 

Fall to this day ; in the Thought is the Fall ; in 
the Heart the Atonement. 

Infinite is the fall, — the Atonement infinite like- 
wise. 

See ! behind me, as far as the old man remem- 
bers, and forward, 

Far as Hope in her flight can reach with her 
wearied pinions. 

Sin and Atonement incessant go through the life- 
time of mortals. 

Sin is brought forth full-grown; but Atonement 
sleeps in our bosoms 

Still as the cradled babe ; and dreams of heaven 
and of angels, 

Cannot awake to sensation ; is like the tones in 
the harp's strings, 

Spirits imprisoned, that wait evermore the de- 
liverer's finger. 

Therefore, ye children beloved, descended ^he 
Prince of Atonement, 

Woke the slumberer from sleep, and she stands 
now with eyes all resplendent, 



THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 



37 



Bright as the vault of the sky, and battles with 
Sin and overcomes her. 

Downward to earth lie came, and, transfigured, 
thence reascended, 

Not from the heart in Like wise, for there he still 

lives in the Spirit, 
Loves and atone- evermore. So long as Time is. 

is Atom ment. 
Therefore with reverenee take this day her visible 

tok.n. 
Token* are dead if the things live not. The light 

everlasting 
Into the blind is not, but is born of the eye that 

lias vision. 
Neither in bread nor in wine, but in the heart 

that is hallowed 
Lieth forgiveness enshrined ; the intention alone 

of amendment 
Fruits of the earth ennobles to heavenly things, 

and removes all 
Sin and the guerdon of sin. Only Love with his 

arms wide extended, 
Penitenee weeping and praying ; the Will that is 

tried, and whose gold tiows 
Purified forth from the flames ; in a word, man- 
kind by Atonement 
Breaketh Atonement's bread, and drinketh Atone- 
ment's wine-cup. 
But he who cometh up hither, unworthy, with 

hate in his bosom, 
Scoffing at men and at God, is guilty of Christ's 

blessed body, 
And the Redeemer's blood ! To himself he eat- 

eth and drinketh 
Death and doom ! And from this, preserve us, 

thou heavenly Father ! 
Are ye ready, ye children, to eat of the bread of 

Atonement f* 
Thus with emotion he asked, and together an- 
swered the children, 
*'Yes!" with deep sobs interrupted. Then read 

he the due supplications, 



Head the Form of Communion, and in chimed 

the organ and anthem : 
lk O Holy Lamb of Cod, who takest away our 

transgressions, 
Hear us .' give us thy peace! have mercy, have 

mercy upon as !" 
Th' old man, with trembling hand, and heavenly 

pearls on his eyelids. 
Filled now the chalice and paten, and dealt round 

the mystical symbols. 
! O, then seemed it to me as if God, with the 

broad eye of midday, 
Clearer looked in at the windows, and all the 

trees in the churchyard 
Bowed down their summits of green, and the 

grass on the graves 'gan to shiver. 
But in the children (I noted it well ; I knew it) 

there ran a 
Tremor of holy rapture along through their ice- 
cold members. 
Decked like an altar before them, there stood the 

green earth, and above it 
Heaven opened itself, as of old before Stephen ; 

they saw there 
Radiant in glory the Father, and on his right 

hand the Redeemer. 
Under them hear they the clang of harpstrings, 

and angels from gold clouds 
Beckon to them like brothers and fan with their 

pinions of purple. 



Closed was the Teacher's task, and with heaven 

in their hearts and their faces, 
i Up rose the children all, and each bowed him, 

weeping full sorely, 
Downward to kiss that reverend hand, but all of 

them pressed he 
Moved to his bosom, and laid, with a prayer, his 

hands full of blessings, 
Now on the holy breast, and now on the innocent 

tresses. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 

Under a spreading chestnut-tree 

The village smithy stands ; 
The smith, a mighty man is he, 

With large and sinewy hands ; 
And the muscles of his brawny arms 

Are strong as iron bands. 

His hair is crisp, and black, and long, 

His face is like the tan ; 

wet with honest sweat, 

He earns what e'er he can. 
And looks the whole world in the face, 

For he owes not any man. 

in, week out. from morn till night, 
You can hear his bellows blow ; 

u hear him swing his heavy sledge, 
With measured b :it and -low. 
Like a sexton ringing the village bell. 
When the evening sun is low. 

And children coming home from school 

L" >k in at the Open door ; 
They love to see the flaming I 

And hear the bell >ws roar. 
And catch the burning sparks that fly 

Like chaff from a threshing-floor. 



He goes on Sunday to the church, 

And sits among his boys ; 
He hears the parson pray and preach, 

He hears his daughter's voice, 
Singing in the village choir, 

And it makes his heart rejoice. 

It sounds to him like her mother's voice, 

Singing in Paradise ! 
He needs must think of her once more, 

How in the grave she lies ; 
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes 

A tear out of his eyes. 

Toiling, — rejoicing, — sorrowing, 
Onward through life he goes; 

Each morning sees some task begin, 
Each evening sees it close ; 

Something attempted, something done, 
Has earned a night's repose. 



Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, 

For the lesson thou hast la 

Thus at the flaming forge of life 
Our fortune-- must be wrought; 

Thus <>n it- sounding anvil shaped 
Each burning deed and thought. 



/• 



ENDYMION.— THE TWO LOCKS OF HAIR. 




And children coming home from school. 



ENDYMION. 

The rising moon has hid the stars ; 

Her level rays, like golden bars, 
Lie on the landscape green, 
With shadows brown between. 

And silver white the river gleams, 
As if Diana, in her dreams, 

Had dropt her silver bow 

Upon the meadows low. 

On such a tranquil nig^it as this, 

She woke Endymion with a kiss, 

When, sleeping in the grove, 

He dreamed not of her love. 

Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought, 
Love gives itself, but is not bought ; 
Nor voice, nor sound betrays 
Its deep, impassioned gaze. 

It comes, — the beautiful, the free, 
The crown of all humanity, — 

In silence and alone 

To seek the elected one. 

It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep 
Are Life's oblivion, the soul's sleep, 
And kisses the closed eyes 
Of him, who slumbering lies. 



O weary hearts ! O slumbering 
O drooping souls, whose destin 
Are fraught with fear and 
Ye shall be loved again ! 



No one is so accursed by fate, 
No one so utterly desolate, 

But some heart, though unknown, 

Responds unto his own. 

Responds, — as if with unseen wings, 
An angel touched its quivering strings ; 
And whispers, in its song, 
"Where hast thou stayed so long ?" 



THE TWO LOCKS OF HAIR. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF PFIZER. 

A youth, light-hearted and content, 
I wander through the world ; 

Here Arab-like, is pitched my tent 
And straight again is furled. 

Yet oft I dream, that once a wife 
Close in my heart was locked, 

And in the sweet repose of life 
A blessed child I rocked. 

I wake ! Away that dream, — away ! 

Too long did it remain ! 
So long, that both by night and day 

It ever comes again. 

The end lies ever in my thought ; 

To a grave so cold and deep 
The mother beautiful was brought ; 

Then dropt the child asleep. 



IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY.— TO THE RIVER CHARLES. 



39 



But now the dream is wholly o'er, 

I bathe mine eyea and Bee ; 
And wander through the world once more, 

A youth so light and free. 

Two locka— and they are wondrous fair — 

Left me that vision mild ; 
The brown is from the mother's hair. 

The blond is from the child. 

And when I see that look of gold, 
Pale grows the evening red ; 

And when the dark look 1 behold, 
I wish that I were dead. 



IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY. 

No hay pijaros en los nidos de ontaSa 

miah Proteri 

Thk sun is bright. — the air is clear. 
The darting swallows soar and sing, 

And from the stately elms I hear 
The bluebird prophesying Spring. 

So blue yon winding river flows, 

It seems an outlet from the sky. 
Where waiting till the west-wind blows, 
The freighted clouds at anchor lie. 

All things are new ; — the buds, the leaves, 
That gild the elm-tree's nodding crest, 

And even the nest beneath the eaves ; — 
There are no birds in last year's nest ! 

All things rejoice in youth and love. 
The fulness of their first delight ! 

And learn from the soft heavens above 
The melting tenderness of night. 

Maiden, that read'st this simple rhyme, 
Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay ; 

Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime, 
For O, it is not always May ! 

Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth, 
To some good angel leave the rest ; 

For Time will teach thee soon the truth, 
There are no birds in last year's nest ! 



THE RAINY DAY. 

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary ; 
It rains, and the wind i< never weary ; 
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, 
But at every gnat the dead leaves fall, 
And the day is dark and dreary. 

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary ; 
It rains, and the wind is never weary ; 

sling to the mouldering Past, 
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, 
And the days are dark and dreary. 

Be still, sad heart ! and cease repining ; 
Behind the clouds is the sun still sinning ; 
Thy fate is the common fate of all, 
i h life some rain mnst fall. 
Some days must be dark and dreary. 



GOD'S-ACRE. 

I LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls 
The burial-ground God' 8- Acre ! It is just ; 

It consecrates each grave within its walls, 
And breathes a berdson o'er the Bleeping dust. 

God's-Acre ! Yes. thai blessed name imparts 
•Comfort to those, who in the grave have sown 

The seed that they had garnered in their hearts, 
Their bread of life, alas ! no more their own. 

Into its furrows shall we all be cast. 
In the sure faith, that we shall rise again 

At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast 
Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain. 

Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom, 

In the fair gardens of that second birth ; 
And each bright blossom mingle its perfume 
Vith that of flowers, which never bloomed on 
earth. 

With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the 
sod, 

And spread the furrow for the seed we sow ; 
This is the field and Acre of our God, 

This is the place where human harvests grow ! 



TO THE RIVER CHARLES. 

River ! that in silence windest 
Through the meadows, bright and free, 

Till at length thy rest thou findest 
In the bosom of the sea ! 

Four long years of mingled feeling, 
Half in rest, and half in strife, 

I have seen thy waters stealing 
Onward, like the stream of Life. 

Thou hast taught me, Silent River ! 

Many a lesson, deep and long ; 
Thou hast been a generous giver ; 

I can give thee but a song. 

Oft in sadness and in illness, 

I have watched thy current glide, 

Till the beauty of its stillness 
Overflowed me, like a tide. 

And in better hours and brighter, 
When I saw thy waters gleam, 

I have felt my heart beat lighter, 
And leap onward with thy stream. 

Not for this alone I love thee. 
Nor because thy waves of blue 

From celestial seas above thee 
Take their own celestial hue. 

Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee, 

And thy waters disappear, 
Friends I love have dwelt beside thee, 

And have made thy margin dear. 

More than this ; — thy name reminds me 
Of three friends, all true and tried : 

And that name, like magic, binds me 
Closer, closer to thy - 

Friends my soul with joy rememb. 
Ib.w like quivering flames they start. 

When I fan the living en 
On the hearth-stone of my heart ! 



40 



BLIND BARTIMEUS.— MAIDENHOOD. 



'T is for this, thou Silent River ! 

That my spirit leans to thee ; 
Thou hast been a generous giver, 

Take this idle song from me. 



BLIND BARTIMEUS. 

Blind Bartimeus at the gates 

Of Jericho in darkness waits ; 

He hears the crowd ; — he hears a breath 

Say, lt It is Christ of Nazareth ! " 

And calls, in tones of agony, 

'Irjcrov, eAerjcrdi/ fie ! 

The thronging multitudes increase ; 
Blind Bartimeus, hold thy peace ! 
But still, above the noisy crowd, 
The beggar's cry is shrill and loud ; 
Until they say, " He calleth thee ! " 

©apcret, eyeipcu, <pu>vei ere/ 

Then saith the Christ, as silent stands 
The crowd, " What wilt thou at my hands 
And he replies, ' ' O give me light ! 
Rabbi, restore the blind man's sight." 
And Jesus answers/Y^c^e- 

'H TrtCTTis crou crecrwKe ere / 

Ye that have eyes, yet cannot see, 
In darkness and in misery, 
Recall those mighty Voices Three, 

'Itjctov, i\er](r6v p.e / 
©ctpcret, e'-yetpai, vnaye ! 
'H 7rtcrTts <rov crecno/ce ere / 



THE GOBLET OP LIFE. 

Filled is Life's goblet to the brim ; 
And though my eyes with tears are dim, 
I see its sparkling bubbles swim, 
And chant a melancholy hymn 
With solemn voice and slow. 

No purple flowers, — no garlands green, 
Conceal the goblet's shade or sheen, 
Nor maddening draughts of Hippocrene, 
Like gleams of sunshine, flash between 
Thick leaves of mistletoe. 

This goblet, wrought with curious art, 
Is filled with waters, that upstart, 
When the deep fountains of the heart, 
By strong convulsions rent apart, 
Are running all to waste. 

And as it mantling passes round, 
With fennel is it wreathed and crowned, 
Whose seed and foliage sun-imbrowned 
Are in its waters steeped and drowned, 
And give a bitter taste. 

Above the lowly plants it towers, 
The fennel, with its yellow flowers, 
And in an earlier age than ours 
Was gifted with the wondrous powers, 
Lost vision to restore. 

It gave new strength and fearless mood ; 
And gladiators, fierce and rude, 
Mingled it in their daily food ; 
And he who battled and subdued, 
A wreath of fennel wore. 

Then in Life's goblet freely press, 
The leaves that give it bitterness, 
Nor prize the colored waters less, 
For in thy darkness and distress 

New light and strength they give ! 



And he who has not learned to know 
How false its sparkling bubbles show, 
How bitter are the drops of woe, 
With which its brim may overflow, 
He has not learned to live. 

The prayer of Ajax was for light ; 
Through all that dark and desperate fight, 
The blackness of that noonday night, 
He asked but the return of sight, 
To see his foeman's face. 

Let our unceasing, earnest prayer 
Be, too, for light, — for strength to bear 
Our portion of the weight of care, 
That crushes into dumb despair 
One half the human race. 

O suffering, sad humanity ! 

ye afflicted ones, who lie 
Steeped to the lips in misery, 
Longing, and yet afraid to die, 

Patient, though sorely tried ! 

1 pledge you in this cup of grief, 
Where floats the fennel's bitter leaf ! 
The Battle of our Life is brief, 

The alarm, — the struggle, — the relief, 
Then sleep we side by side. 



MAIDENHOOD. 

Maiden ! with the meek, brown eyes, 
In whose orbs a shadow lies 
Like the dusk in evening skies ! 

Thou whose locks outshine the sun, 
Golden tresses, wreathed in one, 
As the braided streamlets run ! 

Standing, with reluctant feet, 
Where the brook and river meet, 
Womanhood and childhood fleet ! 

Gazing, with a timid glance, 
On the brooklet's swift advance, 
On the river's broad expanse ! 

Deep and still, that gliding stream 
Beautiful to thee must seem, 
As the river of a dream. 

Then why pause with indecision, 
When bright angels in thy vision 
Beckon thee to fields Elysian ? 

Seest thou shadows sailing by, 
As the dove, with startled eye, 
Sees the falcon's shadow fly ? 

Hearest thou voices on the shore, 
That our ears perceive no more, 
Deafened by the cataract's roar ! 

O, thou child of many prayers ! 

Life hath quicksands, — Life hath snares ! 

Care and age come unawares ! 

Like the swell of some sweet tune, 
Morning rises into noon, 
May glides onward into June. 

Childhood is the bough, where slumbered 
Birds and blossoms many-numbered ; — 
Age, the bough with snows encumbered. 

Gather, then, each flower that grows, 
When the young heart overflows, 
To embalm that tent of snows. 



MAIDENHOOD. 



41 




Btending, with reluctant feet, where the brook and river meet. 



Bear a lily in thy hand ; 

- ..f cross cannot withstand 
One touch of that magic wand. 

Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth, 
In thy heart the dew of youth, 
On thy lips the smile of truth. 



O, that dew, like balm, shall steal 
Into wounds that cannot heal, 
Even as sleep our eyes doth seal ; 

And that smile, like sunshine, dar* 
Into many a sunless heart, 
For a smile of God thou art. 




Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay. 



42 



EXCELSIOR.— THE SLAVE'S DREAM. 



EXCELSIOR. 

Tue shades of night were falling fast, 
As through an Alpine village passed 
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, 
A banner with the strange device, 
Excelsior ! 

His brow was sad ; his eye beneath, 
Flashed like a falchion from its sheath, 
And like a silver clarion rung 
The accents of that unknown tongue, 
Excelsior ! 

In happy homes he saw the light 
Of household fires gleam warm and bright 
Above, the spectral glaciers shone, 
And from his lips escaped a groan, 
Excelsior ! 

" Try not the Pass ! " the old man said ; 
" Dark lowers the tempest overhead, 
The roaring torrent is deep and wide ! " 
And loud that clarion voice replied, 
Excelsior ! 



" O stay," the maiden said, "and rest 
Thy weary head upon this breast ! " 
A tear stood in his bright blue eye, 
Bat still he answered, with a sigh, 
Excelsior ! 



"Beware the pine-tree's withered branch ! 
Beware the awful avalanche ! " 
This was the peasant's last Good-night, 
A voice replied, far up the height, 
Excelsior ! 

At break of day, as heavenward 
The pious monks of Saint Bernard 
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, 
A voice cried through the startled air, 

Excelsior ! 



A traveller, by the faithful hound, 
Half -buried in the snow was found, 
Still grasping in his hand of ice 
That banner with the strange device, 
Excelsior ! 



There in the twilight cold and gray, 
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, 
And from the sky, serene and far, 
A voice fell, like a falling star, 

Excelsior ! 



POEMS ON SLAVERY. 



[The following poems, with one exception, were written at sea, in the latter part of October, 1842. I had not 
then heard of Dr. Channing's death. Since that event, the poem addressed to him is no longer appropriate. I 
have decided, however, to let it remain as it was written, in testimony of my admiration for a great and good 
man.] 



TO WILLIAM E. CHAINING. 

The pages of thy book I read, 

And as I closed each one, 
My heart, responding, ever said, 

"Servant of God ! well done ! " 

Well done ! Thy words are great and bold ; 

At times they seem to me, 
Like Luther's, in the days of old, 

Half -battles for the free. 

Go on, until this land revokes 

The old and chartered Lie, 
The feudal curse, whose whips and yokes 

Insult humanity. 

A voice is ever at thy side 

Speaking in tones of might, 
Like the prophetic voice, that cried 

To John in Patmos, " Write !" 

Write ! and tell out this bloody tale ; 

Record this dire eclipse, 
This Day of Wrath, this Endless Wail, 

This dread Apocalypse I 



THE SLAVE'S DREAM. 

Beside the ungathered rice he lay, 

His sickle in his hand ; 
His breast was bare, his matted hair 

Was buried in the sand. 
Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep, 

He saw his .Native Land. 



Wide through the landscape of his dreams 

The lordly Niger flowed ; 
Beneath the palm-trees on the plain 

Once more a king he strode ; 
And heard the tinkling caravans 

Descend the mountain-road. 

He saw once more his dark-eyed queen 

Among her children stand ; 
They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks, 

They held him by the hand ! — 
A tear burst from the sleeper's lids 

And fell into the sand. 



And then at furious speed he rode 

Along the Niger's bank ; 
His bridle-reins were golden chains, 

And, with a martial clank, 
At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel 

Smiting his stallion's flank. 



Before him, like a blood-red flag, 

The bright flamingoes flew ; 
From morn till night he followed their flight, 

O'er plains where the tamarind grew, 
Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts, 

And the ocean rose to view. 



At night he heard the lion roar, 

And the hyena scream, 
And the river-horse, as he crushed the reeds 
. Beside some hidden stream ; 
And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums, 

Through the triumph of his dream. 



THE GOOD PART.— THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP. 



43 



The forests, with their myriad tongues, 

Shouted of liberty ; 
And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud, 

With a voire so wild and tree. 
That he started in his Bleep and smiled 

At their tempestuous glee. 



He did not feel the driver's whip, 

Nor the burning heat of day ; 
For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep, 

And his lifeless body lay 
A worn-out fetter, that the soul 
Had broken and thrown away ! 




And then at furious speed he rode. 



THE GOOD PART, 

THAT SHALL NOT BE TAKEN AWAY. 

She dwells by Oreat Kenhawa's side, 

In valleys green and cool ; 
And all her hope and all her pride 

Are in the village school. 

Her soul, like the transparent air 

That robes the hills above, 
Though not of earth, encircles there 

All things with arms of love. 

And thus she walks among her girls 
With praise and mild rebukes ; 

Subduing e'en rude village churls 
By her angelic looks. 

She reads to them at eventide 
( >f One who can 

• the captive's chains aside 
And liberate the slave. 

And oft the blessed time foretells 

When all men shall be 
And musical, as silver-bells, 

Their falling chains shall be. 

following her beloved Lord, 
decent poverty, 

She makes her life one sweet record 
And deed of charity. 

For she was rieh, and gave up all 

To break the iron bands 
Of thr>M' who waited in her hall, 

And labored in her lands. 



Long since beyond the Southern Sea 
Their outbound sails have sped, 

While she, in meek humility, 
Now earns her daily bread. 

It is their pi*ayers, which never cease, 
That clothe her with such grace ; 

Their blessing is the light of peace 
That shines upon her face. 



THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP. 

In dark fens of the Dismal Swamp 

The hunted Negro lay ; 
He saw the fire of the midnight camp, 
And heard at times a horse's tramp 

And a bloodhound's distant bay. 

Where will-o'-the-wisps and glow-worms shine. 

In bulrush and in brake ; 
Where waving mosses shroud the pine, 
And the cedar ^'lows, and the poisonous vine 

La spotted like the snake; 

Where hardly a human foot could pass. 
Or a human heart would dare, 

On the quaking turf <>! the green morass 

He crouched in the rank and tangled grass, 
Like a wild beast in his lair. 

A poor <'ld slave, infirm and lame ; 

I ■ re deformed his fa 

On his forehead he bore tie' brand <>f shame, 
And tin' rags, that hid Ins mangled lrame, 

Were the livery of disgrace. 



44 



THE SLAVE SINGING AT MIDNIGHT.— THE QUADROON GIRL. 



All things above were bright and fa' 

All things were glad and free ; 
Lithe squirrels darted here and there, 
And wild birds rilled the echoing air 
With songs of Liberty ! 

On him alone was the doom of pain, 

From the morning of his birth ; 
On him alone the curse of Cain 
Fell, like a flail on the garnered grain, 
And struck him to the earth ! 



THE SLAVE SINGING AT MIDNIGHT. 

# 
Loud he sang the psalm of David ! 
He, a Negro and enslaved, 
Sang of Israel's victory, 
Sang of Zion, bright and free. 

In that hour, when night is calmest, 
Sang he from the Hebrew Psalmist, 
In a voice so sweet and clear 
That I could not choose but hear, 

Songs of triumph, and ascriptions, 
Such as reached the swart Egyptians, 
When upon the Red Sea coast 
Perished Pharaoh and his host. 

And the voice of his devotion 
Filled my soul with strange emotion ; 
For its tones by turns were glad 
Sweetly solemn, wildly sad. 

Paul and Silas, in their prison, 
Sang of Christ, the Lord arisen, 
And an earthquake's arm of might 
Broke their dungeon-gates at night. 

But, alas ! what holy angel 
Brings the Slave this glad evangel ? 
And what earthquake's arm of might 
Breaks his dungeon-gates at night ? 



THE WITNESSES. 

In Ocean's wide domains, 

Half buried in the sands, 
Lie skeletons in chains, 

With shackled feet and hands. 

Beyond the fall of dews, 

Deeper than plummet lies, 
Float ships, with all their crews, 

No more to sink nor rise. 

There the black Slave-ship swims, 
Freighted with human forms, 

Whose fettered, fleshless limbs 
Are not the sport of storms. " 

These are the bones of Slaves ; 

Thej r gleam from the abyss ; 
They cry, from yawning waves, 

"We are the Witnesses ! " 

Within Earth's wide domains 
Are markets for men's lives ; 

Their necks are galled with chains, 
Their wrists are cramped with gyves. 

Dead bodies, that the kite 

In deserts makes its prey ; 
Murders, that with affright 

Scare school-boys from their play ! 



All evil thoughts and deeds ; 

Anger, and lust, and pride ; 
The foulest, rankest weeds, 

That choke Life's groaning tide ! 

These are the woes of Slaves ; 

They glare from the abyss ; 
They cry, from unknown graves, 

" We are the Witnesses ! " 



THE QUADROON GIRL. 

The Slaver in the broad lagoon 

Lay moored with idle sail ; 
He waited for the rising moon, 

And for the evening gale. 

Under the shore his boat was tied, 

And all her listless crew 
Watched the gray alligator slide 

Into the still bayou. 

Odors of orange-flowers, and spice, 
Reached them from time to time, 

Like airs that breathe from Paradise 
Upon a world of crime. 

The Planter, under his roof of thatch, 
Smoked thoughtfully and slow ; 

The Slaver's thumb was on the latch, 
He seemed in haste to go. 

He said, " My ship at anchor rides 

In yonder broad lagoon ; 
I only wait the evening tides, 

And the rising of the moon." 

Before them, with her face Upraised, 

In timid attitude, 
Like one half curious, half amazed, 

A Quadroon maiden stood. 

Her eyes were large, and full of light, 

Her arms and neck were bare ; 
No garment she wore save a kirtle bright, 

And her own long, raven hair 

And on her lips there played a smile 

As holy, meek, and faint, 
As lights in some cathedral aisle 

The features of a saint. 

" The soil is barren, — the farm is old ;" 

The thoughtful planter said ; 
Then looked upon the Slaver's gold, 

And then upon the maid. 

His heart within him was at strife 

With such accursed gains : 
For he knew whose passions gave her life, 

Whose blood ran in her veins. 

But the voice of nature was too weak ; 

He took the glittering gold ! 
Then pale as death grew the maiden's cheek, 

Her hands as icy cold. 

The Slaver led her from the door, 

He led her by the hand, 
To be his skive and paramour 

In a strange and distant land ! 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



45 



THE WARNING. 

Beware ! The Israelite of old, who tore 

The lion in bis path, — when, poor and blind, 
a- the blessed light ot heaven no move, 
i of his noble strength and forced to grind 
In prison, and at last led forth to be 
A pander to Philistine revelry, — 

Upon the pillars of the temple laid 

II is desperate hands, and in its overthrow 

ed himself, and with him those who made 



A crnel mockery of his sightless woe ; 
The poor, blind Stave, the scoff ami jest of all. 
Expired, and thousands perished in the fall! 

There is a poor, blind Samson in this land. 
Shorn o\ his strength ami bound in bonds of 

Who may, in some grim revel, raise his hand. 
And shake the pillars o\' this Common weal. 
Till the vast T. mple of our liberties 
> A shapeless mass of wreck and rubbish lies. 



THE SPANISH STUDEJSTT. 

DRAMATIS PERSON. E 



Students of AlcaU't. 
Gentlemen of Madrid. 



YlCTOT: 

• ro \ 

THB COONT of T.aka i 

DOH i '.m:L'>s 

THK AKCHlilSHOP OF lOLEDO. 

A I uuunal. 

v Ci:rz.vDO. Count of the Gypsies. 

A young Gypsy. 



ElOMAN 

THB Padbb Cura of Cfadakuama. 

Pfdro Crespo 





Chispa 

Balxac 

I'KKc [OSA 

Angkxica 

Martina 

Dolores Preaosas Maid 

Gypsies. Musicians, dbc. 



Alcaide. 
Alguacil, 
Lara's Servant. 
Victoria n'x Servant. 
Innkeeper. 
A fri/psi/ Girt. 
A poor Girl. 
The Padr<- Cura's Niece. 



ACT I. 

of Lara's chambers. 

i "■ • Count in A is <<r< ssing-gow a . 
<■/ with Don Carlos. 

u were not at the play to-night, Don 
Carlos ; 
How happened it '? 

Don ' . I had engagements elsewhere. 
Pray who was there ? 

Lara. Why. all the town and court. 
The boose was crowded ; and the busy fans 
Among the gayly dressed and perfumed ladies 
Fluttered like butterflies among the flowers. 
There was the Countess of Medina Celi ; 
The Cnblin Lady with her Phantom Lover, 

do Don Diego ; Dona Sol, 
An I Dona Serartna, and her cousins. 

- >'. What was the play? 

Lara. It was a dull affair ; 

One of those comedies in which you see, 
A- L history of the world 

Brought down from Genesis to the Day of Judg- 
ment 
There were three duels fought in the first act, 
I inu r deadly wounds, 

- their hands upon their hearts, and saying, 
i am dead ! *' a lover in a cloa 

,\n old hidalgo, and a gay Don Joan, 
A Don a black mantilla. 

Followed al v an unknown lover. 

Who looks intently where he knows she ifl not! 
Don. i . Of c i reciosa dan 

nil- 
I 

abeam on the v. • 
girl extri mely 1 eantiful. 
Almost beyond tHe privilege of wo- 
man ! 



I saw her in the Prado yesterday. 

Her step was royal. — queen-like, — and her face 

As beautiful as a saint's in Paradise 

Lara. Hay not a saint fall from her Paradise, 
And be no more a saint ? 

Don. ' . Why do you ask? 

Lara. Because I have heard it said this angel 
fell, 
And though she is a virgin outwardly 
Within she is a sinner ; like those panels 
Of doors and altar-pieces the old monks 
Painted in convents, with the Virgin Bfary 
On the outside, and on the inside' Venus ! 

Don. G. You do her wrong; indeed, you do 
her wrong ! 
She is as virtuous as she is fair. 

Lara. How credulous you are! Why look 
you, friend. 
There's not a virtuous woman in Madrid, 
In this whole city ! And would you persuade 

me 
That a mere dancing-girl, who shows herself, 
Nightly, half-naked, on th • Btage, for money, 
And with voluptuous motion- firea the blood 
Of inconsiderate youth, is to be held 
A model for hi r \ irtue 't 

/>",/. V. You forget 

She is a Gypsy girl 

Lara. And therefore won 

Th" easier. 

[><>u. ('. Nay, not to be won at all ! 

The only virtue that a Gypsy | 
Is chastity. That is her only vu I 

• than life she holds it. I remember 
ly woman, a vile, shameli M bawd. 

fair ; 
And yet this woman was above all 
And when a noble lord, touched by 
The wild and wizard beauty of her race, 



46 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



Offered her gold to be what she made others, 
She turned upon him, with a look of scorn, 
And smote him in the face ! 

Lara. And does that prove 

That Preciosa is above suspicion ? 

Don. C. It proves a nobleman may be repulsed, 
When he thinks conquest easy. I believe 
That woman, in her deepest degradation, 
Holds something sacred, something undefiled, 
Some pledge and keepsake of her higher nature, 
And, like the diamond in the dark, retains 
Some quenchless gleam of the celestial light ! 

Lara. Yet Preciosa would have taken the 
gold. 

Don. G. {rising). I do not think so. 

Lara. I am sure of it. 

But why this haste ? Stay yet a little longer. 
And fight the battles of your Dulcinea. 

Don. C. 'T is late. I must begone, for if I stay 
You will not be persuaded. 

Lara. Yes ; persuade me. 

Don. C. No one so deaf as he who will not 
hear ! 

Lara. No one so blind as he who will not see ! 

Don. C. And so good night. I wish you pleas- 
ant dreams, 
And greater faith in woman. [Exit. 

Lara. Greater faith ! 

I have the greatest faith ; for I believe 
Victorian is her lover. I believe 
That I shall be to-morrow ; and thereafter 
Another, and another, and another, 
Chasing each other through her zodiac, 
As Taurus chases Aries. 

{Enter Francisco with a casket.) 

Well, Francisco, 
What speed with Preciosa ? 

Fran. None, my lord. 

She sends your jewels back, and bids me tell 

you 
She is not to be purchased by your gold. 

Lara. Then I will try some other way to win 
her. 
Pray, dost thou know Victorian ? 

Fran. Yes, my lord ; 

I saw him at the jeweller's to-day. 

Lara. What was he doing there ? 

Fran. I saw him buy 

A golden ring, that had a ruby in it. 

Lara. Was there another like it ? 

Fran. One so like it 

I could not choose between them. 

Lara. It is well. 

To-morrow morning bring that ring to me. 
Do not forget. Now light me to my bed. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene II. — A street in Madrid. Enter Chispa, 
followed by musicians, with a bagpipe, guitars, 
and other instruments. 

Chispa. Abernuncio Satanas ! and a plague on 
all lovers who ramble about at night, drinking the 
elements, instead of sleeping quietly in their beds. 
Every dead man to his cemetery, say I ; and 
every friar to his monastery. Now, here's my 
master, Victorian, yesterday a cow-keeper, and 
to-day a gentleman ; yesterday a student, and to- 
day a lover ; and I must be up later than the 
nightingale, for as the abbot sings so must the 
sacristan respond. God grant he may soon be 
married, for then shall all this serenading cease. 
Ay, marry ! marry ! marry ! Mother, what does 
marry mean ? It means to spin, to bear children, 
and to weep, my daughter ! And, of a truth, 
there is something more in matrimony than the 
wedding-ring. (To the musicians.) And now, 
gentlemen, Pax vobiscum ! as the ass said to the 
cabbages. Pray, walk this way ; and don't hang 



down your heads. It is no disgrace to have an 
old father and a ragged shirt. Now, look you, 
you are gentlemen wno lead the life of crickets ; 
you enjoy hunger by day and noise by night. 
Yet, I beseech you, for this once be not loud, but 
pathetic ; for it is a serenade to a damsel in bed, 
and not to the Man in the Moon. Your object is 
not to arouse and terrify, but to soothe and bring 
lulling dreams. Therefore, each shall not play 
upon his instrument as if it were the only one in 
the universe, but gently, and with a certain mo- 
desty, according with the others. Pray, how 
may I call thy name, friend ? 

First Mies. Geronimo Gil, at your service. 

Chispa. Every tub smells of the wine that is 
in it. Pray, Geronimo, is not Saturday an un- 
pleasant day with thee V 

First Mus. Why so ? 

Chispa. Because I have heard it said that 
Saturday is an unpleasant day with those who 
have but one shirt. Moreover, I have seen thee 
at the tavern, and if thou canst run as fast as 
thou canst drink, I should like to hunt hares 
with thee. What instrument is that ? 

First Mus. An Aragonese bagpipe. 

Chispa. Pray, art thou related to the bagpiper 
of Bujalance, who asked a maravedi for playing, 
and ten for leaving off ? 

First Mus. No, your honor. 

Chispa. I am glad of it. What other instru - 
ments have we ? 

Second and Third Musicians. We play the 
bandurria. 

Chispa. A pleasing instrument. And thou ? 

Fourth Mus. The fife. 

Chispa. I like it ; it has a cheerful, soul-stir- 
ring sound, that soars up to my lady's window 
like the song of a swallow. And you others ? 

Other Mus. We are the singers, please your 
honor. 

Chispa. You are too many. Do you think we 
are going to sing mass in the cathedral of Cordo- 
va? Four men can make but little use of one 
shoe, and I see not how you can all sing in one 
song. But follow me along the garden wall. 
That is the way my master climbs to the lady's 
window. It is by the Vicar's skirts that the 
Devil climbs into the belfry. Come, follow me, 
and make no noise. [Exeunt. 

Scene III. — Preciosa's chamber. She stands, 
at the open window. 

Free. How slowly through the lilac-scented air 
Descends the tranquil moon ! Like thistle-down 
The vapory clouds float in the peaceful sky ; 
And sweetly from yon hollow vaults of shade 
The nightingales breathe out their souls in song. 
And hark ! what songs of love, what soul-like 

sounds, 
Answer them from below ! 

SERENADE. 

Stars of the summer night ! 

Far in yon azure deeps, 
Hide, hide your golden light ! 

She sleeps ! 
My lady sleeps ! 

Sleeps ! 

Moon of the summer night ! 

Far down yon western steeps, 
Sink, sink in silver light ! 

She sleeps ! 
My lady sleeps ! 
i! 



Wind of the summer night ! 

Where yonder woodbine creeps, 
Fold, fold thy pinions light ! 

She sleeps ! 
My lady sleeps ! 

Sleeps I 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



47 



Dreams of the summer night ! 

Toll her. her lover keeps 
Watch ! while in slumbers light 

She .- 
My lady sleeps ; 

Bleeps! 
(E)ita- Victorian by the balcony.) 

Viet. Poor little dove ! Thou tremblest like 

a leaf! 
Prec 1 am so frightened! 'T is for thee I 
tremble ! 
I hate to have thee climb that wall by night ! 
Did no one see thee J 

None, my love, but thou. 
Prec. 'T is very dangerous ; and when thou 
art gone 
1 chide m\ Bell for letting thee come here 
Thus stealthily by night. Where hast thou been? 
Since yesterday I hayeno news from thee. 

Since yesterday I have been in Alcala. 
Erelong the time will come, BWeet Preciosa, 
When that dull distance shall no more divide 

OS ; 
And I no more shall seale thy wall by night 
To steal a kis> from thee, as 1 do now. 

Pn e, An honest thief, to steal but what thou 
givest. 

And we shall sit together unmolested, 
And words of true love pass from tongue to 

tongue. 
As ringing birds from one bough to another. 

Prt ft That were a life to make time envious ! 
1 knew that thou wouldst come to me to-night. 
I saw thee at the play. 

Vict Sweet child of air ! 

Never did I behold thee so attired 
And garmented in beauty as to-night ! 
What hast thou done to make thee look so fair ? 
Pn ft Am I not always fair f 
Viet. Ay. and so fair 

That I am jealous of all eyes that see thee, 
And wish that th y were blind. 

/'/' ft I heed them not ; 

When thou art present, I see none but thee ! 
Vict There's nothing fair nor beautiful, but 
bakes 
Something from thee, that makes it beautiful. 
Prt ft And yet thou leavest me for those dusty 
books 

Thou comest between me and those 
books too often ! 
I see thy face in everything I see ! 
The paintings in the chapel wear thy looks, 
The canrichs are change 1 to saraband*. 
And with the learned doctors of the schools 
I see thee dance cachuchas. 

Prt ft In good sooth, 

I dance with learned doctors of the schools 
To-morrow morning. 

And with whom, I pray ? 
Prt ft A grave and reverend Cardinal, and his 
ace 
T Archbishop of Toledo. 

What mad jest 
1^ this ': 

Prec. It is no jest ; Indeed it is not. 
J"" 7 . Prithee, explain thyself. 

Prt e. Why. simply thus. 

knowest the Pope has sent here into Spain 
>p to dances on the stage. 
Viet. I have heard it whia] 

Prec. ' Now the Cardinal. 

Who for this purpose comes, would fain behold 
With his own eyes these dances ; and the Arch- 
bishop 
it for me — 
VU t That thou mayst dance before them ! 
Now viva la cachucha ! It will breathe 
Tne fire of youth into these gray old men ! 
T will be thy proudest conq 



Prec. Saving one. 

And yet I fear these dances will be stopped, 
And Preciosa be once more a beggar. 

I'ict. The sweetest beggar that e'er asked for 
alm> ; 
With such beseeching eyes, that when I saw thee 
1 gave my heart away ! 

Prec. Dost thou remember 

When first we met ? 

Vict It was at Cordova, 

In the cathedral garden. Thou wast sitting 
Under the orange trees, besides a fountain. 

Prec T was Easter-Sunday. The full-blos- 
somed trees 
Filled all the air with fragrance and with joy. 
The priests were singing, and the organ sounded. 
And then anon the gnat cathedral bell. 
It ^as tht- elevation of the Host. 
We both of us fell down upon our knees, 
Under the orange boughs, and prayed together. 
1 never had been happy till that moment. 

Vict Thou blessed angel ! 

Prt ft And when thou wast gone 

I felt an aching here. I did not speak 
To any one that day. But from that day 
Bartolome grew hateful unto me. 

Vict. Remember him no more. Let not his 
shadow 
Come between thee and me. Sweet Preciosa ! 
I loved thee even then, though 1 was silent ! 
Prec. I thought 1 ne'er should see thy face 
again. 
Thy farewell had a sound of sorrow in it. 

i r iet. That was the first sound in the song of 
love ! 
Scarce more than silence is, and yet a sound. 
Hands of invisible spirits touch the strings 
Of that mysterious instrument, the soul, 
And play the prelude of our fate. We hear 
The voice prophetic, and are not alone. 
Prec That is my faith. Dost thou believe 
these warnings ? 

Vict. So far as this. Our feelings and our 
thoughts 
Tend ever on, and rest not in the Present. 
As drops of rain fall into some dark well, 
And from below comes a scarce audible sound, 
So fall our thoughts into the dark Hereafter, 
And their mysterious echo reaches us. 
Prec I have felt it so, but found no words to 
say it ! 
I cannot reason ; I can only feel ! 
But thou hast language for all thoughts and feel- 
ings. 
Thou art a scholar ; and sometimes I think 
We cannot walk together in this world ! 
The distance that divides us is too great ! 
Henceforth thy pathway lies among the stars; 
I must not hold thee back. 

Viet Thou little sceptic! 

Dost thou still doubt ? What I most prize in 

woman 
Is her affections, not her intellect ! 
The intellect is finite ; but the affections 
Axe infinite, and cannot be exhausted. 
Compare me with the great men of tin- earth; 
What am 1 ''. Why, a pygmy among giants ! 
But if thou Invest, — mark me ! I say fovest, 
The greatest of thy sex excels thee not ! 
The world of the affections i* thy world. 
Not that of man's ambition. In that stlllneBB 
Which most becomes a woman, calm and holy 
Thou sittest by the fireside of the h' art. 

Feeding its flame. The element of fire 

Is pure. It cannot change nor hide its nature, 

But burns as brightly in a Gypsy camp 

As mi i palace hall. Art thou convinced ! 
Prec Yes, that I love thee, as tfa • good love 
heaven ; 

Btit not that I am worthy of that heaven. 
How shall I more deserve it ? 



48 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



Vict. Loving more. 

Prec. I cannot love thee more ; my heart is 

full. 
Vict. Then let it overflow, and I will drink it, 
As in the summer-time the thirsty sands 
Drink the swift waters of the Manzanares, 
And still do thirst for more. 

A Watchman (i?i the street). Ave Maria 
Purissima ! 'T is midnight and serene ! 
Vict. Hear'st thou that cry ? 
Prec. It is a hateful sound, 

To scare thee from me ! 

Vict. As the hunter's horn 

Doth scare the timid stag, or bark of hounds 
The moor-fowl from his mate. 
Prec. Pray, do not go ! 

Vict. I must away to Alcala to-night. 
Think of me when I am away. 

Prec. Fear not ! 

I have no thoughts that do not think of thee. 
Vict, (giving her a ring). And to remind thee 
of my love, take this ; 
A serpent, emblem of Eternity ; 
A ruby, — say, a drop of my heart's blood. 

Prec. It is an ancient saying, that the ruby 
Brings gladness to the wearer, and preserves 
The heart pure, and, if laid beneath the pillow, 
Drives away evil dreams. But then, alas ! 
It was a serpent tempted Eve to sin. 

Vict. What convent of barefooted Carmelites 
Taught thee so much theology ? 

Prec. (laying her hand tipon his mmith). 

Hush! hush! 
Good night ! and may all holy angels guard thee ! 
Vict. Good night ! good night ! Thou art my 
guardian angel ! 
I have no other saint than thou to pray to ! 

(lie descends by the balcony. ) 

Prec. Take care, and do not hurt thee. Art 
thou safe ? 

Vict, (from the garden). Safe as my love for 
thee ! But art thou safe ? 
Others can climb a balcony by moonlight 
As well as I. Pray shut thy window close ; 
I am jealous of the perfumed air of night 
That from this garden climbs to kiss thy lips. 

Prec. (throwing down her handkerchief). Thou 
silly child ! Take this to blind thine eyes. 
It is my benison ! 

Vict. And brings to me 

Sweet fragrance from thy lips, as the soft wind 
Wafts to the out-bound mariner the breath 
Of the beloved land he leaves behind. 

Prec. Make not thy voyage long. 

Vict. To-morrow night 

Shall see me safe returned. Thou art the star 
To guide me to an anchorage. Good night ! 
My beauteous star ! My star of love, good night ! 

Prec. Good night ! 
Watchman (at a distance). Ave Maria Puris- 



Scene IV. — An inn on the road to Alcala. Bal- 
tasar asleep on a bench. Enter Chispa. 

Chispa. And here we are, half-way to Alcala, 
between cocks and midnight. Body o' me ! what 
an inn this is ! The lights out, and the landlord 
asleep. Hola ! ancient Baltasar ! 

Bui. (waking). Here I am. 

Chispa. Yes, there you are, like a one-eyed 
Alcalde in a town without inhabitants. Bring a 
light, and let me have supper. 

Bal. Where is your master ? 

Chispa. Do not trouble yourself about him. 
We have stopped a moment to breathe our horses ; 
and, if he chooses to walk up and down in the 
open air, looking into the sky as one who hears it 
rain, that does not satisfy my hunger, you know. 



But be quick, for I am in a hurry, and every man 
stretches his legs according to the length of his 
coverlet. What have Ave here ? 

Bal. (setting a light on the table). Stewed 
rabbit. 

Chispa^ (eating). Conscience of Portalegre ! 
Stewed kitten, you mean ! 

Bal. And a pitcher of Pedro Ximenes, with a 
roasted pear in it. 

Chispa (drinking). Ancient Baltasar, amigo ! 
You know how to cry wine and sell vinegar. I 
tell you this is nothing but Vino Tinto of La 
Mancha, with a tang of the swine-skin. 

Bal. I swear to you by Saint Simon and Judas, 
it is all as I say. 

Chispa. And 1 swear to you by Saint Peter 
and Saint Paul, that it is no such thing. More- 
over, your supper is like the hidalgo's dinner, 
very little meat and a great deal of tablecloth. 

Bal. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Chispa. And more noise than nuts. 

Bal. Ha! ha! ha! You must have your joke, 
Master Chispa. But shall I not ask Don Victo- 
rian in, to take a draught of the Pedro Ximenes ? 

Chispa. No; you might as well say, "Don't- 
you- want-some V" to a dead man. 

Bal. Why does he go so often to Madrid ? 

Chispa. For the same reason that he eats no 
supper. He is in love. Were you ever in love, 
Baltasar ? 

Bal. I was never out of it, good Chispa. It 
has been the torment of my life. 

Chispa. What ! are you on fire, too, old hay- 
stack ? Why, we shall never be able to put you 
out. 

Vict. (witJioui). Chispa! 

Chispa. Go to bed, Pero Grullo, for the cocks 
are crowing. 

Vict. Ea! Chispa! Chispa! 

Chispa. Ea ! Senor. Come with me, ancient 
Baltasar, and bring water for the horses. I will 
pay for the supper to-morrow. [Exeunt. 

Scene V. —Victorian's chambers at Alcala. 
Hypolito asleep in an arm-chair. He awakes 
sloicly. 

Hyp. I must have been asleep ! ay, sound 
asleep ! 
And it was all a dream. O sleep, sweet sleep I 
Whatever form thou takest, thou art fair, 
Holding unto our lips thy goblet filled 
Out of Oblivion's well, a healing draught ! 
The candles have burned low ; it must be late. 
Where can Victorian be ? Like Fray Carillo, 
The only place in which one cannot find him 
Is his own cell. Here's his guitar, that seldom 
Feels the caresses of its master's hand. 
Open thy silent lips, sweet instrument ! 
And make dull midnight merry with a song. 

(He plays and sings.) 

Padre Francisco ! 
Parlre Francisco ! 
What do you want of Padre Francisco ? 
Here is a pretty young maidi-n 
Who wants to confess her sins ! 
Open the door and let her come in, 
I will shrive her from every sin. 

(Enter Victorian.) 

Vict. Padre Hypolito ! Padre Hypolito ! 
Hyp. What do you want of Padre Hypolito ? 
Vict. Come, shrive me straight ; for, if love 
be a sin, 
I am the greatest sinner that doth live. 
| I will confess the sweetest of all crimes, 
A maiden wooed and won. 
Hyp. The same old tale 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



40 



Of the old woman in the chimney-conn r. 

Who, while the pot boils, Bays, "Come here, my 

child ; 
I'll tell thee a story of my wedding-day." 

Vict. Nay, listen, tor my heart is full ; so full 
That I must speak. 

Hyp. Alas! that heart of thine 

fa like a scene in the old play ; the curtain 

inn music, and lo ! eater 
The eleven thousand virgins of Cologne ! 

Nay. like the Sibyi's volumes, thou 
shouhlst say ; 

at remained, after th i six were burned, 
Being held more precious than the nine together, 
sten to my tale. Dost thou remember 
psy L. r irl we saw at Cox 
Dance the Komalis in the mark) t place '; 
Thou meanest Preoiosa. 
Vict. Ay. the same. 

Thou knowest how her image haunted me 
Long aft) t we returned to Alcala. 
,n Madrid. 

I know it. 

And I 'm in love. 
Hyp. And therefore in Madrid when thou 
shouhlst be 
In Alealii 

I'm?. O pardon me. my friend, 

lon^r have kept this secret from thee ; 
B .t .-deuce is th -charm that guards such treasures, 
And. if a word be spoken ere the time. 
They sink again, they were not meant for us. 
las ! i see thou art in love. 
Love keeps the cold out bitter than a cloak. 

- fox foo 1 and raiment. Give a Spaniard 
His mas*. hi> o!la. and his Doha Luisa — 
Thou knowest the proverb. But pray tell me, 

lover, 
H'.w <p . ds thy wooing ? Is the maiden coy ? 
Write her _.nning with an A 

as the monk sang to tne Virgin Mary, 

'ijux cal< em clare 
otaceani commendare 

■jj/i studio .' 

V Pray, do not jest ! This is no time for it ! 

I am i 

S riously enamored ? 
:io ! The Primus of gr -at Alcala 
iored of a Gypsy 2 Tell me frankly, 
in ? 

I mean it honestly. 
Jf'/p. Surely thou wilt not marrv hex '. 

Why not ? 
Hyp. She was 1 i one Bartolome, 

member rightly, a young Gypsy 
. lova. 

They quarrelled, 
And ><> the matter ended. 

Hyp. But in truth 

Thou wilt not marrv her. 

I • In truth I will. 

The angels sang in heaven when she was born ! 
She is a precious jewel I have found 
Among the tilth and rubbish of the world 
but when I wear it b 
: my forehead like the morning star. 
The world may wonder, but it will not laugh. 
Hyp. If thou wear'st nothing else upon thy 
fore:: 
be indeed a wonder. 

Out upon thee 
aable jests ! Pray tell me. 
Is there no virtue in the world ? 

Hyp. much. 

Wiiat. think- :e doing at this moment ; 

rhile we speak <>t 

lies asleep. 
And from hex parted lips her gentle !>:• 
Comes '.. gxance from the lips of llowcrs, 

4 



Her tender limbs are still, and on hex hi. a-t 
The cross she prayed to. ere she fell asleep, 
R -. - and fails with the Boft tideof dreams, 
Like a light barge safe moored. 

Hyp. Which means, in prose, 

She 's sleeping with her mouth a little open ! 

Vict. O, would 1 had the old magician's glass 
hex as she li.-s in childlike sleep ! 

Hyp. And wouldst thou venture? 

Ay. indeed I would ! 

Hyp. Thou art courageous. Hast thou e'er 
reflect* 1 
How much lies hidden in that one word, HOW? 

]'i>(. Yes ; all the awful mystery of Life ! 
I oft have thought, my dear Hypo 

1 1 we, by -ome sp.-ll of magic, change 
The world and its inhabitants to stone, 
In the same attitudes they now are in. 
What fearful glances downward might we cast 
Into the hollow chasms of human life ! 
What groups should we behold about the death- 
bed. 
Putting to shame the group of Xiobe ! 
What joyful welcomes, and what -ad farewells ! 
What stony tears in those congealed eves ! 
What visible joy or anguish in those cheeks! 
What bridal pomps, and what funereal shows! 
What foes, like gladiators, fierce and struggling ! 
What lovers with their marble lips together ! 

Hyp. Ay, there it is ! and, if I were in love, 
That is the very point I most should dread. 
This magic glass, these magic spells of thine, 
Might tell a tale were better left untold. 
For instance, they might show us thy fair cousin, 
The Lady Violante, bathed in tears 
Of love and auger, like the maid of Colchis, 
Whom thou, another faithless Argonaut, 
Having won that golden fleece, a woman's love, 
Desertest for this Glance. 

Vict Hold thy peace ! 

She cares not for me. She may wed another, 
Or go into a convent, and, tints dying, 
Achilles in the Elysian Fields. 

Hyp. (rising). And so, good night ! 
Good morning, I should say. 

(Clock strikes thv e. ) 

Hark ! how the loud and ponderous mace of Time 

Knocks at the golden portals of the day ! 

And so, once more, good night ! We '11 speak 

more largely 
Of Precio.-a when we meet again. 

I bee to bed, and the magician. Sleep, 
Shall show her to thee, in his magic glass- 
In all her loveliness. Good night ! 

[Exit. 
Vict. Good night. 

But not to bed ; for I must read awhile. 

(Throws himself into the asm-chair which Htpo- 

i no has hft, and lays a laryc book <>p< u upon 
his km es.) 

read, or sit in rovery and watch 
The changing color of th" waves that break 
Upon the idle -ea-shore of the mind ! 
Visions of Fame ! that once did visit me, 
Making night glorious with your smile, where 

are 
O. who shall give me. now that ye are sone, 
Juices of those immortal plants that bloom 
Upon Olympus, making as immortal ? 

icb me where that wondrous mandrake grows 
Who-- magic root, torn from the ■ 

■ hour, can scare the fiends away, 
And : rind prolific in it- Earn 

1 have the wish, but want the will, to act ! 
S mis of great men departed ! Ye whose words 
Have come to light from toe swiit river ot Time. 



50 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



Like Roman swords found in the Tagus' bed, 

Where is the strength to wield the arms ye bore ? 

From the barred visor of Antiquity 

Reflected shines the eternal light of Truth, 

As from a mirror ! All the means of action — 

The shapeless masses, the materials — 

Lie everywhere about us. What we need 

Is the celestial fire to change the flint 

Into transparent crystal, bright and clear. 

That fire is genius ! The rude peasant sits 

At evening m his smoky cot, and draws 

With charcoal uncouth figures on the wall. 

The son of genius comes, foot-sore with travel, 

And begs a shelter from the inclement night. 

He takes the charcoal from the peasant's hand, 

And, by the magic of his touch at once 

Transfigured, all its hidden virtues shine, 

And, in the eyes of the astonished clown, 

It gleams a diamond ! Even thus transformed, 

Rude popular traditions and old tales 

Shine as immortal poems, at the touch 

Of some poor, houseless, homeless, wandering 

bard. 
Who had but a night's lodging for his pains. 
But there are brighter dreams than those of Fame, 
Which are the dreams of Love ! Out of the 

heart 
Rises the bright ideal of these dreams, 
As from some woodland fount a spirit rises 
And sinks again into its silent deeps, 
Ere the enamored knight can touch her robe ! 
'T is this ideal that the soul Of man, 
Like the enamored knight beside the fountain, 
Waits for upon the margin of Life's stream ; 
Waits to behold her rise from the dark waters, 
Clad in a mortal shape ! Alas ! how many 
Must wait in vain ! The stream flows evermore, 
But from its silent deeps no spirit rises ! 
Yet I, born under a propitious star, 
Have found the bright ideal of my dreams. 
Yes ! she is ever with me. I can feel, 
Here, as I sit at midnight and alone, 
Her gentle breathing ! on my breast can feel 
The pressure of her head ! God's benison 
Rest ever on it ! Close those beauteous eyes, 
Sweet Sleep ! and all the flowers that bloom at 

night 
With balmy lips breathe in her ears my name ! 

( Gradually sinks asleep. ) 



ACT II. 



Scene I. — Preciosa's chamber. Morning. Pre- 
ciosa and Angelica. 

Free. Why will you go so soon? Stay yet 
awhile. 
The poor too often turn away unheard 
From hearts that shut against them with a sound 
That will be heard in heaven. Pray, tell me 

more 
Of your adversities. Keep nothing from me. 
What is your landlord's name ? 

Ang. The Count of Lara. 

Free. The Count of Lara ? O, beware that 
man ! 
Mistrust his pity, — hold no parley with him ! 
And rather die an outcast in the streets 
Than touch his gold. 

Ang. You know him, then ! 

Free. As much 

As any woman may, and yet be pure. 
As you would keep your name without a blemish, 
Beware of him ! 

Ang. Alas ! what can I do ? 

I cannot choose my friends. Each word of kind- 
ness, 
Come whence it may, is welcome to the poor. 



Free. Make me your friend. A girl so young 
and fail- 
Should have no friends but those of her own sex. 
What is your name ? 

Ang. " Angelica. 

Free. That name 

Was given you, that you might be an angel 
To her who bore you ! When your infant smile 
Made her home Paradise, you were her angel. 
O, be an angel still ! She needs that smile. 
So long as you are innocent, fear nothing. 
No one can harm you ! I am a poor girl, 
Whom chance has taken from the public streets. 
I have no other shield than mine own virtue. 
That is the charm which has protected me ! 
Amid a thousand perils, I have worn it 
Here on my heart ! It is my guardian angel. 

Ang. {rising). I thank j r ou for this counsel, 
dearest lady. 

Free. Thank me by following it. 

Ang. Indeed I will. 

Free. Pray, do not go. I have much more to 
say. 

Ang. My mother is alone. I dare not leave 
her. 

Free. Some other time, then, when we meet 
again. 
You must not go awa3 r with words alone. 

{Gives her a purse.) 

Take this. Would it were more. 

Ang. I thank you, lady. 

Free. No thanks. To-morrow come to me 
again. 
I dance to-night, — perhaps for the last time. 
But what I gain, I promise shall be yours, 
If that can save you from the Count of Lara. 

Ang. O, my dear lady ! how shall I be grateful 
For so much kindness ? 

Free. I deserve no thanks, 

Thank Heaven, not me. 

Ang. Both Heaven and you. 

Free. Farewell. 

Remember that you come again to-morrow. 

A ng. I will. And may the Blessed Virgin 
guard you, 
And all good angels. [Exit. 

Free. May they guard thee too, 

And all the poor ; for they have need of angels. 
Now bring me, dear Dolores, my basquifia, 
My richest maja dress, — my dancing dress, 
And my most precious jewels ! Make me look 
Fairer than night e'er saw me ! I've a prize 
To win this day, worthy of Preciosa ! 

{Enter Beltran Cruzado.) 

Cruz. Ave Maria ! 

Free. O God ! my evil genius ! 

What seekest thou here to-day ? 

Cruz. Thyself, — my child. 

Free. What is thy will with me V 

Cruz. Gold! gold! 

Free. I gave thee yesterday ; I have no more. 

Cruz. The gold of the Busne, — give me his 
gold! 

Free. I gave the last in charity to-day. 

Cruz. That is a foolish lie. 

Free. It is the truth. 

Cruz. Curses upon thee ! Thou art not my 
child ! 
Hast thou given gold away, and not to me ? 
Not to thy father ? To whom, then ? 

Free. To one 

Who needs it more. 

Cruz. No one can need it more. 

Free. Thou art not poor. 

Cruz. What, I, who lurk about 

j In dismal suburbs and unwholesome lanes ; 
1 1, who am housed worse than the galley slave ; 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



r,1 



I, who am fed worse than the kennelled hound ; 
I, who am clothed in rags, — BeUran Cruzado, — 
Not poor ! 

Pree. Thou hast a stout heart and strong 
hands. 
Thou canst supply thy wants; what wouldst 
thou more "r 

Cnr.. The gold of the Busne! give me his 

gold ! 

Pree Beltran Cruzado ! hear me once for all. 
.1 speak the truth. So long as 1 had gold, 
I gave it to thee freely, at all times, 

denied thee; never had a wish 
But to fulfil thine own. Now go in peace ! 
Be merciful be patient, and erelong 
Thou shalt have more. 

Orttz. And if 1 have it not, 

Thou shalt no longer dwell here in rich chambers, 
Wear silken dresses, fe d on dainty food, 
And live in idleness ; but ^o with me. 
Dance the Romalis in the public streets, 
And wander wild again o'er held and fell; 
For here we stay not long. 

Ftec. What! march again? 

Ay, with all .-peed. I hate the crowded 
town ! 
I cannot breathe shut up within its gates ! 
Air. — 1 want air. and sunshine, and blue sky, 
The feeling of the breeze upon my face, 
The feeling of the turf beneath my feet, 
And no walls but the far-off mountain-tops. 
Then 1 am free and strong, —once more myself, 
Beltran Cruzado, Count of the Cales ! 

Pree. God speed thee on thy march ! — I can- 
not go. 

Remember who I am, and who thou art ! 
Be silent and obey ! Yet one thing more. 
Bartolome Roman — 

'4h emotion). O, I beseech thee 
If my obedience and blameless life, 
If my humility and meek submission 
In all things hitherto, ean move in thee 
( >n< feeling of compassion ; if thou art 
Indeed my father, and canst trace in me 
One look of her who bore me, or one tone 
That doth remind thee of her, let it plead 
In my behalf, who am a feeble girl, 
Too feeble to resist, and do not force me 
To wed that man ! I am afraid of him ! 
I do not love him ! On my knees I beg thee 
To use no violence, nor do in haste 
What cannot be undone ! 

Cruz. O child, child, child ! 

Thou hast betrayed thy secret, as a bird 
Betrays her nest, by striving to conceal it. 
I will not leave thee here in the great city 
To be a grandee's mistress. Make thee ready 
To go with us ; and until then remember 
A watchfid eye is on thee. [ Exit. 

Prt e. Woe is me ! 

I have a strange misgiving in my heart ! 
But that one deed of charity I '11 do. 
Befall what may ; they cannot take that from me. 



Scr.Ni: IT— .1 room in tht Archbishop's Palace. 
Tht Abx ebishop and >> Cardinal seated. 

Arch. Knowing how near it touched the pub- 
lic morals, 
And that onr age is grown corrupt and rotten 
By sue I; t to Rome, 

Beseeching that his Holim as would aid 
In curing tfa rf eit of the time, 

■ sonable stop put here in Spain 
To bull- fights and lewd dances on the stage 
All this you know. 

Card. Know and approve. 

Arch. And further, 

That, by a mandate from his Holiness, 
The first have been suppressed. 



Card. I trust forever. 

It was a cruel sport. 

Arch. A barbarous pastime, 

Disgraceful to the land that calls itself 
Most Catholic and Christian. 

Card. Yet the people 

Murmur at this ; and, if the public dances 
Should be condemned upon too slight occasion, 
Worse ills might follow than the ills we cure. 
As Pant hi it Cira nses was the cry 
Among the Roman populace of old, 
So Pun ij Toros is the cry in Spain. 
Hence 1 would act advisedly herein; 
And therefore have induced your Grace to see 
These national dances, ere we interdict them. 

(Enter a Servant.) 

Serv. The dancing-girl, and with her the musi- 
cians 
Your Grace was pleased to order, wait without. 
. I rch . Bid them come in. Now shall your eyes 
behold 
In what angelic, yet voluptuous shape 
The Devil came to tempt Saint Anthony. 

(Enter Pkeciosa, with a mantle thrown over her 
head. She advances slowly, in modest, half- 
timid attitude.) 

Card, (aside). O, what a fair and ministering 
angel 
Was lost to heaven when this sweet woman fell ! 

Free, [kneeling before the Archbishop). I 
have obeyed the order of your Grace. 
If I intrude upon your better hours, 
I proffer this excuse, and here beseech 
Your holy benediction. 

Arch. May God bless thee, 

And lead thee to a better life. Arise. 

Card, [aside). Her acts are modest, and her 
words discreet ! 
1 did not look for this ! Come hither, child. 
Is thy name Preciosa ? 

Prt c. Thus I am called. 

Card. That is a Gypsy name. Who is thy fa- 
ther ? 

Pree. Beltran Cruzado, Count of the Cale's. 

Arch. I have a dim remembrance of that man ; 
He was a bold and reckless character, 
A sun-burnt Ishmael ! 

( 'ard. Dost thou remember 

Thy earlier days ? 

Pree. Yes ; by the Darro's side 

My childhood passed. I can remember still 
The river, and the mountains capped with snow ; 
The villages, where, yet a little child, 
I told the traveller's fortune in the street ; 
The smuggler's horse, the brigand and the shep- 
herd ; 
The march across the moor ; the halt at noon ; 
The red fire of the evening camp, that lighted 
The forest where we slept ; and, further back, 
As in a dream or in some former life, 
Gardens and palace walls. 

. 1 rch. 'T is the Alhambra, 

I Index whose towers the Gypsy camp was pitched. 
But the time wears ; and we would see thee dame 

Pree. Your (Jrace shall be obeyed. 

(She lays aside her mantilla. The m usic of the 
eaehucha Is played, and tht danct begins. '/'/"■ 
Archbishop and the Cardinal i<»>h- <>n with 
gravity and an occasional frown; theft make 
sign* to each other ; and, as the danct contin- 
t,becomt mort andmort pleased and excited ; 
and at length rise from their suits, throw their 
in/,, in' tii. air, aini applaud i< in mi nt'ii us tin; 

m: UL—ThePrado. A long avenue of trees 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



leading to the gate of Atocha. On the right the 
dome and spires of a convent. A fountain. 
Evening, Don Carlos and Hypolito meeting. 

Don C. Hola ! good evening, Don Hypolito. 

Hyp. And. a good evening to my friend, Don 
Carlos. 
Some lucky star has led my steps this way. 
I was in search of you. 

Don 0. Command me always. 

Hyp. Do you remember, in Quevedo's Dreams, 
The miser, who, upon the Day of Judgment, 
Asks if his money-bags would rise ? 

Don (J. I do , 

But what of that ? 

Hyp. I am that wretched man. 

Don C. You mean to tell me yours have risen 
empty ? 

Hyp. And amen ! said my Cid the Campeador. 

Don C. Pray, how much need you ? 

Hyp. Some half-dozen ounces, 

Which, with due interest — 

Don V. {giving his purse). What, am I a Jew 
To put my moneys out at usury ? 
Here is my purse. 

Hyp. Thank you. A pretty purse. 
Made by the hand of some fair Madrilefia ; 
Perhaps a keepsake. 

Don C. No, 't is at your service. 

Hyp. Thank you again. Lie there, good Chry- 
sostom, 
And with thy golden mouth remind me often, 
I am the debtor of my friend. 

Don C. But tell me, 

Come you to-day from Alcala ? 

Hyp. This moment. 

Don C. And pray, how fares the brave Victor- 
ian? 

Hyp. Indifferent well ; that is to say, not well. 
A damsel has ensnared him with the glances 
Of her dark, roving eyes, as herdsmen catch 
A steer of Andalusia with a lazo. 
He is in love. 

Don C. And is it faring ill 

To be in love ? 

Hyp. In his case very ill. 

Don C. Why so ? 

Hyp. Por many reasons. First and foremost, 
Because he is in love with an ideal ; 
A creature of his own imagination ; 
A child of air ; an echo of his heart ; 
And, like a lily on a river floating, 
She floats upon the river of his thoughts ! 

Don (J. A common thing with poets. But who is 
This floating lily ? For, in fine, some woman, 
Some living woman, — not a mere ideal, — 
Must wear the outward semblance of his thought. 
Who is it ? Tell me. 

Hyp. Well, it is a woman ! 

But, iook you, from the coffer of his heart 
He brings forth precious jewels to adorn her, 
As pious priests adorn some favorite saint 
With gems and gold, until at length she gleams 
One blaze of glory. Without these, you know, 
And the priest's benediction, 't is a doll. 

Don C. Well, well ! who is this doll ? 

Hyp. Why, who do you think ? 

Don C His cousin Violante. 

Hyp. Guess again. 

To ease his laboring heart, in the last storm 
He threw her overboard, with all her ingots. 

Don (J. I cannot guess ; so tell me who it is. 

Hyp. Not I. 

Don C. Why not ? 

Hyp. (mysteriously). Why ? Because Mari 
Franca 
Was married four leagues out of Salamanca ! 

Don C Jesting aside, who is it ? 

Hyp. Preciosa. 

Don (J. Impossible ! The Count of Lara tells me 
She is not virtuous. 



Hyp. Did I say she was ? 

The Roman Emperor Claudius had a wife 
Whose name was Messalina, as I think ; 
Valeria Messalina was her name. 
But hist ! I see him yonder through the trees, 
Walking as in a dream. 

Don C. He comes this way. 

Hyp. It has been truly said by some wise man, 
That money, grief, and love cannot be hidden. 

{Enter Victorian in front.) 

Vict. Where'er thy step has passed is holy 
ground ! 
These groves are sacred ! I behold thee walking 
Under these shadowy trees, where we have 

walked 
At evening, and I feel thy presence now ; 
Feel that the place has taken a charm from thee, 
And is forever hallowed. 

Hyp. Mark him well ! 

See how he strides away with lordly air, 
Like that odd guest of stone, that grim Com- 
mander 
Who comes to sup with Juan in the play. 

Don C. What ho ! Victorian ! 

Hyp. Wilt thou sup with us ? 

Vict. Hola ! Amigos ! Faith, I did not see 
you. 
How fares Don Carlos ? 

Don C. At your service ever. 

Vict. How is that young and green-eyed Gadi- 
tana 
That you both wot of ? 

Don V. Ay, soft, emerald eyes ! 

She has gone back to Cadiz. 

Hyp. Ay de mi [ 

Vict. You are much to blame for letting her 
go back. 
A pretty girl ; and in her tender eyes 
Just that soft shade of green we sometimes see 
In evening skies. 

Hyp. But, speaking of green eyes, 

Are thine green ? 

Vict. Not a whit. Why so ? 

Hyp. I think 

The slightest shade of green would be becoming, 
For thou art jealous. 

Vict. No, I am not jealous. 

Hyp. Thou shouldst be, 

Vict. Why ? 

Hyp. Because thou art in love. 

And they who are in love are always jealous. 
Therefore thou shouldst be. 

Vict. Marry, is that all ? 

Farewell ; I am in haste. Farewell, Don Car- 
los. 

Thou sayest I should be jealous ? 

Hyp. Ay, in truth 

I fear there is reason. Be upon thy guard. 
I hear it whispered that the Count of Lara 
Lays siege to the same citadel. 

Vict. Indeed ! 

Then he will have his labor for his pains. 

Hyp. He does not think so, and Don Carlos 
tells me 
He boasts of his success. 

Vict. How 's this, Don Carlos ? 

Don C. Some hints of it I heard from his own 
lips. 
He spoke but lightly of the lady's virtue, 
As a gay man might speak. 

Vict . Death and damnation ! 

I'll cut his lying tongue out of his mouth, 
And throw it to my dog ! But no, no, no ! 
This cannot be. You jest, indeed you jest. 
Trifle with me no more. For otherwise 
We are no longer friends. And so, farewell ! 

[Exit. 

Hyp. Now what a coil is here ! The Aveng- 
ing Child 



THE SPANISH STUDENT 



53 



Hunting the traitor Quadros to his death, 
And the great Moor Calaynos, when be rode 
To Paris tor the oars of Oliver, 
Were nothing to him ! (> hot-headed youth ! 
But come ; we will not follow. L t us join 
The crowd that pours into the Prado. There 
We shall find merrier company ; I see 
The If arialonzo8 and the Almavivas, 
Ami titty fans, that beckon me alrea ly. 

[Exeunt. 

Bgenb TV. — Prkciosa's chamber. She is sitting, 
with <i book in her hand, near <> table, on which 
are flowers. A bird singing in Us cage. Tht 
Count of Lara enters behind unpereeived. 

Free, (reads). 

All are sleeping, weary heart ! 
Thou, thou onlj sleepless art ! 

Heigho ! T wish Victorian were here. 

1 know nut what it is makes me so restless ! 

(The bird sings.) 

Thou little prisoner with thy motley coat, 
That from thy vaulted, wiry dungeon singest, 
Like the? I am a captive, and, like thee, 

I have a gentle jailer. Laek-a-day ! 

All are sleeping, weary heart ! 
Thou, fchon only sleepless art ! 
All this throbbing, all this aching, 
Evermore sha',1 ke<>p thee waking, 
For a heart in sorrow breaking 
Thinketh ever of its smart ! 

Thou sreakest truly, poet ! and methinks 
More hearts are breaking in this world of ours 
Than one would say. In distant villages 
And solitudes remote, where winds have wafted 
T irbed seeds of love, or birds of passage 
Scattered them in their flight, do they take root, 
And grow in silence, and in silence perish. 
Who hears the falling of the forest leaf ? 

o takes note of every flower that dies ? 
Heigho ! I wish Victorian would come. 
Dolores ! 

(Turns to lay down hrr book, and perceives the 
Count.) 

Ha: 
Lara. Sefiora, pardon me ! 

Free. How 's this ? Dolores ! 
Lara. Pardon me — 

Pree. Dolores ! 

Lara, Be not alarmed; I found no one in 
waiting. 

II I have been too bold — 

I'ii i . [turning her back upon him). You are 
too bold ! 
Retire ! retire, and leave me ! 

I.'' i -. My dear lady, 

First hear me ! I beseech you, let me speak ! 
'T is for your ^ood I come. 
Free, (turning toward him with indignation). 
Begone ! begone ! 
You are the Count of Lara, but your de 
Wo ll I make the statues of your ance- r 
Blush on their tombs ! Is it Castilian honor, 
Is it Castilian pride, to steal in hu 
Upon a friendless girl, to do her wi 

une ! shame ! shame I that you. a nobleman, 
Should he so little noble in your thoughts 

here to win my lore, 
And think to buy my honor with your gold ! 
I have no words to tell yon how I scorn youl 
I The sigh' of you i.-. hat' ful to me ! 
Begoie . 1 

' Be calm ; I will not harm you. 
Pree. Because you dare not. 



Lara. 1 dare anything! 

Th< c Eore l>* ware ! Yon are deceived in me. 

In this false world, we do not always know 
Who are our friends and who our enemies. 
We all have enemies, and all need friends. 

Even you, fair Preciosa, lure at court 
Have iocs, who seek to wrong you. 

Pree. If to this 

I owe the honor of the present visit, 
You might have spared the coming. Having 

spoken. 
Once more 1 beg you. leave me to myself. 

I.arn. I thought it but a friendly part to tell 
you 
What strange reports arc current here in town. 
For my own self, 1 do not credit them ; 
Hut there are many who, not knowing you, 
Will lend a readier ear. 

Pree There was no need 

That you should take upon yourself the duty 
Of telling me these tales. 

Lara. Malicious tongues 

Are ever busy with your name. 

Pree Alas! 

I' ve no protectors. I am a poor girl, 
Exposed to insults and unfeeling jests. 
They wound me, yet I cannot shield myself. 
I give no cause for these reports. I live 
Retired ; am visited by none. 

Lara. By none ? 

O, then, indeed, you are much wronged ! * 

/ '/ ■< c. How mean you ? 

Lara. Nay, nay ; I will not wound your gen- 
tle soul 
By the report of idle tales. 

Pree. Speak out ! 

What are these idle tales ? Yon need not spare 
me. 

Lara. I will deal frankly with you. Pardon me ; 
This window, as 1 think, looks toward the street, 
And this into the Prado, does it not? 
In yon high house, beyond the garden wall, — 
You see the roof there just above the trees, — 
There lives a friend, who told me yesterday. 
That on a certain night, — be not offended 
If I too plainly speak, — he saw a man 
Climb to your chamber window. You are silent ! 
I would not blame you, being young and fair — 

(He tries to embrace her. She starts back, and 
draws a dagger front, her bosom.) 

Free. Beware ! beware ! T am a Gypsy girl ! 
Lay not your hand upon me. One step nearer 
And I will strike ! 

Lara. Pray you, put up that dagger. 
Fear not. 

Pree. I do not fear. I have a heart 
In whose strength I can trust. 

A"/--/. Listen to me. 

i I come here as your friend, — I am your friend, — 
And by a single word can put a stop 
To all those idle tales, and make your name 
Spot! » as lilies are. Here on my knees, 
Fair Preciosa ! on my knees I swear, 
1 love you even to madness, and that love 
Has driven me to break the rules of custom, 
And force myself unasked into your presence. 

(Victorian enters behind.) 

Prrr. Rise, Count of Lara ! That is not the 
place 
For such as you are. It becomes you not 
To kneel before me. 1 am strangely moved 

on.' of your rank thus low and humbled; 
For your sake I will put aside all anger. 
All unkind Seeling, all dislike, and speak 
.. woman, 

as my heart now prompts me. I no more 
Will hate you, for all hate i.-, painful to me. 



54 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



But if, without offending modesty 
And that reserve which is a woman's glory, 
I may speak freely, I will teach my heart 
To love you. 

Lara. O sweet angel ! 

Free. Ay, in truth, 

Far better than you love yourself or me. 

Lara. Give me some sign of this, — the slight- 
est token. 
Let me but kiss your hand ! 

Free. Nay, come no nearer. 

The words I utter are its sign and token. 
Misunderstand me not ! Be not deceived ! 
The love wherewith I love you is not such 
As you would offer me. For you come here 
To take from me the only thing I have, 
My honor. You are wealthy, you have friends 
And kindred, and a thousand pleasant hopes 
That fill your heart with happiness ; but I 
Am poor, and friendless, having but one treasure, 
And you would take that from me, and for what ? 
To flatter your own vanity, and make me 
What you would most despise. O sir, such love, 
That seeks to harm me, cannot be true love. 
Indeed it cannot. But my love for you 
Is of a different kind. It seeks your good. 
It is a holier feeling. It rebukes 
Your earthly passion, your unchaste desires, 
And bids you look into your heart, and see 
How you do wrong that better nature in you, 
And grieve your soul with sin. 

Lara. I swear to you, 

I would not harm you ; I would only love you. 
I would not take your honor, but restore it, 
And in return I ask but some slight mark 
Of your affection. If indeed you love me, 
As you confess you do, O let me thus 
With this embrace — 

Vict. {Rushing forward.) Hold! hold! This 
is too much. 
What means this outrage ? 

Lara. First, what right have you 

To question thus a nobleman of Spain ? 

Vict. I too am noble, and you are no more ! 
Out of my sight ! 

Lara. Are you the master here ? 

Vict. Ay, here and elsewhere, when the wrong 
of others 
Gives me the right ! 

Free, (to Lara) . Go ! I beseech you, go ! 

Vict. I shall have business with you, Count, 
anon! 

Lara. You cannot come too soon ! [Exit. 

Free. Victorian ! 

O, we have been betrayed ! 

Vict. Ha ! ha ! betrayed ! 

'T is I have been betrayed, not we ! — not we ! 

Free. Dost thou imagine — 

Vict . I imagine nothing ; 

I see how 't is thou whilest the time away 
When I am gone ! 

Free. O speak not in that tone ! 

It wounds me deeply. 

Vict. 'T was not meant to flatter. 

Free. Too well thou knowest the presence of 
that man 
Is hateful to me ! 

Vict. Yet I saw thee stand 

And listen to him, when he told his love. 

Free. I did not heed his words. 
Vict. Indeed thou didst, 

And answeredst them with love. 

Free. Hadst thou herrd all — 

Vict. I heard enough. 

Free. Be not so angry with me. 

Vict. I am not angry ; I am very calm. 

Free. If thou wilt let me speak — 
Vict. Nay, say no more. 

I know too much already. Thou art false ! 
I do not like these Gypsy marriages ! 
Where is the ring I gave thee ? 



Free. In my casket. 

Vict. There let it rest ! I would not have thee 
wear it : 
I thought thee spotless, and thou art polluted ! 
Free. I call the Heavens to witness — 
Vict. Nay, nay, nay ! 

Take not the name of Heaven upon thy lips ! 
They are forsworn ! 
Free. Victorian! dear Victorian! 

Vict. I gave up all for thee ; myself, my fame, 
My hopes of fortune, ay, my very soul ! 
And thou hast been my ruin ! Now, go on ! 
Laugh at my folly with thy paramour, 
And, sitting on the Count of Lara's knee, 
Say what a poor, fond fool Victorian was ! 

(Fie casts her from him and rushes out.) 

Free. And this from thee ! 

(Scene closes. ) 



Scene V. — The Count of Lara's rooms. Enter 
the Count. 

Lara. There 's nothing in this world so sweet 
as love, 
And next to love the sweetest thing is hate ! 
I 've learned to hate, and therefore am revenged. 
A silly girl to play the prude with me ! ' 

The fire that I have kindled — 



(Enter Francisco.) 

Well, Francisco, 
What tidings from Don Juan ? 

Fran. Good, my lord ; 

He will be present. 

Lara. And the Duke of Lermos ? 

Fran. Was not at home. 

I^ara. How with the rest ? 

Fran. I 've found 

The men you wanted. They will all be there, 
And at the given signal raise a Avhirlwind 
Of such discordant noises, that the dance 
Must cease for lack of music. 

Lara. Bravely done. 

Ah ! little dost thou dream, sweet Preciosa, 
What lies in wait for thee. Sleep shall not close 
Thine eyes this night ! Give me my cloak and 
sword. [Exeunt. 

Scene VI. — A retired sp>ot beyond the city gates. 
Enter Victorian awrif Hypolito. 

Vict. O shame ! O shame ! Why do I walk 
abroad 
By daylight, when the very sunshine mocks me, 
And voices, and familiar sights and sounds 
Cry, ' l Hide thyself ! " O what a thin partition 
Doth shut out from the curious world the knowl- 
edge 
Of evil deeds that have been done in darkness ! 
Disgrace has many tongues. My fears are win- 
dows, 
Through which all eyes seem gazing. Every face 
Expresses some suspicion of my shame, 
And in derision seems to smile at me ! 
Hyp. Did 1 not caution thee ? Did I not tell 
thee 
I was but half persuaded of her virtue ? 

Vict. And yet, Hypolito, we may be wrong, 
We may be over-hasty in condemning ! 
The Count of Lara is a cursed villain. 
Hyp. And therefore is she cursed, loving him. 
Vict. She does not love him ! 'T is for gold ! 

for gold! 
Hyp. Ay, but remember, in the public streets 
He shows a golden ring the Gypsy gave him, 
A serpent with a ruby in its mouth. 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



Vid. She had that ring from me ! God! she 
is false ! 
But I will be revenged ! The hour is passed. 
Where Btays the coward ? 

Hyp. Naj ■ he i s no coward ; 

A villain, if thou wilt, but not a coward. 
I've Been him play with b words; it is his pastime. 
Ami therefore be not over-confident, 
Be 11 task thy skill anon Look, here he comes. 

{Enter Lara /ofls wed by Francisco.) 

ra. Good evening, gentlemen. 
Hyp. Good evening, Count. 

ra. I trust I have not kept you long in wait- 
ing. 
Vict. Not long, and yet too long. Are you 

prepared ? 
Lara. I am. 

/////> . It grieves me much to 

see this quarrel 
Between you. gentlemen. Is there no way 
L sfft open to accord this difference, 
But yon must make one with your swords ? 

Viet. No ! none ! 

I do entreat thee, dear Hypolito, 
Stand not between me and my foe. Too long 
Our tongues have spoken. Let these tongues of 

End our debate. Upon your guard, Sir Count. 

( Theij fight. VICTORIAN disarms the Count. ) 

Your life is mine ; and what shall now withhold 

me 
From sending your vile soul to its account? 
/.'//■". Strike ! strike ! 

You are disarmed. 
I will not kill you. 
I will not murder you. Take up your sword. 

i Francisco hands the Count his sword, and 
Hypolito interposes. ) 

Hyp. Enough ! Let it end here ! The Count 
of Lara 
Has shown himself a brave man, and Victorian 
A generous one as ever. Now be friends. 
Put up your swords ; for, to speak frankly to you, 
Your cause of quarrel is too slight a thing 
To move you to extremes. 

Lara. I am content. 

T sought no quarrel. A few hasty words, 
Spoken in the heat of blood, have led to this. 

Vict. Nay, something more than that. 

Lara. I understand you. 

Therein I did not mean to cross your path. 
To me the door stood open, as to others. 
But. had I known the girl belonged to you, 

t would I have sought to win her from you. 
Tne truth stands now revealed ; she has been 

To both of us. 

Viet Ay, false as hell itself ! 

Lara. In truth, I did not seek her ; she sought 
me ; 
And told me how to win her, telling me 
The hours when she was oftenest left alone. 

Say, can you prove this to me f O, pluck 
out 
These awful doubts, that goad me into madness ! 
L t me know all ! all ! all ! 

Lara, You shall know all. 

Here is my page, who was t\v 

n us. Question him. Was it not so, 
Francisco 1 

Fran, Ay, mv lord. 

Lara. If farther proof 

dial, I have here a rin^ she gave me. 

Pray let me see that ring ! It is the 
same ! 



[Throws it upon the ground, and tramples upo> 



it.) 



Thus may she perish who once wore that ring ! 
Tims do 1 Spurn her from me; do thus trample 
Her memory in the dust ! () Count of Lara, 

We both have been abused, been mueli abused ! 
I thank you for your courtesy and frankness, 
Though, like the surgeon's hand, yours gave me 

pain, 
Yet it has cured my blindness, and I thank you. 
1 now can Bee the folly 1 have done, 
Though 't is alas ! too late. So fare you well ! 
To-nighl 1 leave this hateful town forever. 
Regard me as your friend. Once more farewell ! 
Hyp. Farewell, Sir Count. 

[/:.r> /nit Victorian and Hypolito. 

Lara. Farewell ! farewell ! farewell ! 
Tims have I cleared the field of my worst foe ! 
1 have none else to fear; the fight, is done, 
The citadel is stormed, the victory won ! 

[Exit with Francisco. 

Scene VII. — A lane in the suburbs. Night, 
Enter Ckuzado and Bartolomb. 

Cruz. And so, Bartolome, the expedition 
! failed. But where wast thou for the most part ? 
| Bart. In the Guadarrama mountains, near 
San Ildefonso. 

Cruz. And thou bringest nothing back with 
thee ? Didst thou rob no one ? 

B irt. There was no one to rob, save a party of 

; students from Segovia, who looked as if they 

'■ would rob us ; and a jolly little friar, who had 

nothing in his pockets but a missal and a loaf of 

! bread. 

Pray, then, what brings thee back to 



Cruz. 

Madrid 
Burt. 
Cruz. 
Bart. 



First tell me what keeps thee here ? 
Preciosa. 

And she brings me back. Hast thou 
forgotten thy promise ? 

Cruz. The two years are not passed yet. Wait 
patiently. The girl shall be thine. 

Bart. I hear she has a Busne' lover. 

Cruz. That is nothing. 

Bart. I do not like it. I hats him, — the son 
of a Busne' harlot. He goes in and out, and speaks 
with her alone, and I must stand aside, and wait 
his pleasure. 

Cruz. Be patient, I say. Thou shalt have 
thy revenge. When the time comes, thou shalt 
waylay him. 

Bart. Meanwhile, show me her house. 

I 'ruz. Come this way. But thou wilt not find 
her. She dances at the play to-night. 

Bart. No matter. Show me the house. 

[Exeunt. 



S« BNE Vni.— The Theatre. The orchestra plays 

the carlmrha. Sound Of Cast a net s 1,( ], i a (J the 

scenes. The curtain rises, and discovers Pre- 
ciosa in the attitude of commencing the dance. 
Th< cachncha. Tumult; hisses'; cries of 
M Brava f " and " Afuera ! " She faltt rs and 
pauses The muMc siojis. General confusion. 
FnxciOBA faints. 



HCBKElX.—The COI'NT OF LABa'S chambers. 

L\i: \ and his friends at supper. 

Lara. So. Caballeros, once more many thanks! 
You have stood by me bravely in this matter. 
Pray till your glac 

Von f. Did you mark, Don Luis, 

How pale she looked, when first the noise began, 



56 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



And then stood still, with her large eyes dilated ! 
Her nostrils spread ! her lips apart ! her bosom 
Tumultuous as the sea! 

Don L. I pitied her. 

Lara. Her pride is humbled ; and this very 
night 
I mean to visit her. 

Don J. Will you serenade her ? 

Lara. No music ! no more music ! 

Don Li. Why not music ? 

It softens many hearts. 

Lara. Not in the humor 

She now is in. Music would madden her. 

Don J. Try golden cymbals. 

Don Lj. Yes, try Don Dinero ; 

A mighty wooer is your Don Dinero. 

Lara. To tell the truth, then, I have bribed 
her maid. 
But, Caballeros, you dislike this wine. 
A bumper and away ; for the night wears. 
A health to Preciosa. 

{They rise and drink.) 

All. Preciosa. 

LjO.ra {holding up his glass)-* Thou bright and 
flaming minister of Love ! 
Thou wonderful magician ! who hast stolen 
My secret from me, and mid sighs of passion 
Caught from my lips, with red and fiery tongue, 
Her precious name ! O nevermore henceforth 
Shall mortal lips press thine ; and nevermore 
A mortal name be whispered in thme ear. 
Go ! keep my secret ! 

{Drinks and dashes the goblet down.) 

Don J. Ite ! missa est ! 

{Scene closes.) 

Scene X. — Street and garden wall. Night. 
Enter Chuzado and Bartolome. 

Cruz. This is the garden wall, and above it, 
3 r onder, is her house. The window in which thou 
seest the light is her window. But we will not 
go in now. 

Bart. Why not ? 

Cruz. Because she is not at home. 

Bart. No matter ; we can wait. But how is 
this V The gate is bolted. {Sound of guitars 
and voices in a neighboring street. ) Hark ! There 
comes her lover with his infernal serenade ! 
Hark! 

SONG. 

Good night ! Good night, beloved ! 

I come to watch o'er thee ! 
To be near thee, —to be near thee, 

Alone is peace for me. 

Thine eyes are stars of morning, 

Thy lips are crimson flowers ! 
Good night ! Good night, beloved, 

While I count the weary hours. 

Cruz. They are not coming this way. 
Bart. Wait, they begin again. 

song {coming nearer). 

Ah ! thou moon that shinest 

Argent-clear ahove ! 
All night long enlighten 

My sweet lady-love ! 

Moon that shinest, 
All night long enlighten ! 

Bart. Woe be to him, if he comes this way ! 
Cruz. Be quiet. They are passing down the 
street. 



song {dying aioay). 

The nuns in the cloister 

Sang to each other ; 
For so many sisters 

Is there not one brother ! 
Ay, for the partridge, mother ! 

The cat has run away with the partridge ! 
Puss ! puss ! puss ! 

Bart. Follow that ! follow that ! Come with 
me. Puss ! puss ! 

{Exeunt. On the opposite side enter the Count 
of Lara and gentlemen, with Francisco. 

Lara. The gate is fast. Over the wall, Fran* 
cisco, 
And draw the bolt. There, so, and so, and over. 
Now, gentfemen, come in, and help me scale 
Yon balcony. How now ? Her light still burns. 
Move warily. Make fast the gate, Francisco. 

{Exeunt. Re-enter Crtjzado and Bartolome. ) 

Bart. They went in at the gate. Hark ! I 

hear them in the garden. {Tries the gate.) 

Bolted again ! Vive Cristo ! Follow me over 
the wall. 

{They climb the wall.) 



Scene XL — Preciosa's bedchamber. Midnight. 
She is sleeping in an arm-chair, in an undress. 
Dolores watching her. 

Dol. She sleeps at last ! 

{Opens the window, and listens.) 

All silent in the street, 
And in the garden. Hark ! 

Dree, {hi her sleep)). I must go hence ! Give 
me my cloak ! 

Dol. He comes ! I hear his footsteps. 

Brec. Go tell them that I cannot dance to- 
night ; 
I am too ill ! Look at me ! See the fever 
That burns upon my cheek ! I must go hence. 
I am too weak to dance. 

{Signal from the garden.) 

Dol. {from the window). Who 's there ? 

Voice {from below). A friend. 

Dol. I will undo the door. Wait till I come. 

Prec. I must go hence. I pray you do not 
harm me ! 
Shame ! shame ! to treat a feeble woman thus ! 
Be you but kind, I will do all things for you. 
1 'm ready now, — give me my castanets. 
Where is Victorian ? Oh, those hateful lamps ! 
They glare upon me like an evil eye. 
I cannot stay. Hark ! how they mock at me ! 
They hiss at me like serpents ! Save me ! Save 
me ! 

{She wakes.) 

How late is it, Dolores ? 
j) l It is midnight. 

Prec. We must be patient. Smooth this pil- 
low for me. 

{She sleeps again. Noise from the garden, and 
voices. ) 

Voice. Muera ! 

Another Voice. O villains ! villains ! 

Lara. So ! have at you ! 

Voice. Take that ! 

Lara. O, I am wounded ! 

Dol. {sJiutting the window). Jesu Maria! 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



r,7 



ACT III. 

Scene I. — A cross-road through a wood. Tn the 
background a distant village spire. Victo- 
rian and Hvroi.no, as travelling students, 
with guitars, sitting undo- the trees. H Yroi.no 
plays and sings 

BONG. 

Ah. Love ! 
rerjuivd. false, treacherous Love ! 

l'.iuniy 
of ;i!l thai mankind may not me ! 
intrue 

To him who keeps most faith with thee. 

Woe is me! 
The falcon has the eyea of the dove. 

Ah. Love] 

Terjured, false, treacherous Love ! 

Y'ct. Y> sa, Love is ever busy with his shuttle, 
Is ever weaving into life's dull warp 
Bright, gorgeous flowers, and scenes Arcadian; 
Ffan g rn g our gloomy prison-house about 
With tapestries, that make its walls dilate 
lu never-ending vistas of delight. 

// />. Thinking to walk in those Arcadian 
pastures, 
Thou hast run thy noble head against the wall. 

song {continued). 

Thy deceits 
Give us clearly to comprehend, 

Whither tend 
All thy pleasures, all thy sweets ! 

They are cheats, 
Thorns below and dowers ahovc. 

Ah. I.ove ! 
Terjured. false, treacherous Love ! 

A very pretty song. I thank thee for 
it, 
Hyp. It suits thy case. 

Indeed, I think it do^s. 
■ wise man wrote it ? 
Hyp. Lopez Maldonado. 

Vict. In truth, a pretty song. 
Hyp. With much truth in it. 

I hope thou wilt profit by it ; and in earnest 
Try to forget this lady of thy love. 

Vu t. I will forget her ! All dear recollections 
Pressed in my heart, like flowers within a book, 
Shall be torn out, and scattered to the winds ! 
I will forget her ! But perhaps hereafter, 
When she shall learn how heartless is the world, 
A voice within her will repeat my name. 
And she will say, " He was indeed my friend ! " 
O, would I were a soldier, not a scholar, 
That the loud march, the deafening beat of drums, 
The shattering blast of the brass-throated trum- 
pet. 
The din of arms, the onslaught and the storm, 
And a swift death, might make me deaf forever 
To the npbraidinga of this foolish heart ! 

Hyp. Then let that foolish heart upbraid no 
more ! 
To conquer love, on~ need but will to conquer. 

Vtct. Y> t. g iod Hypolito, it is in vain 
I throw into Oblivions sea the sword 
That pierces me; for, like Excdibar. 
With gemmed and Hashing hilt, it will not sink. 
from below a hand that grasps it, 
waves it in the air ; and wailing voices 
Are heard along the shore. 

Hyp. And yet at last 

Down sank Exealibar to rise no more. 

- not well. In truth, it vexes me. 
Instead of whistling to the steeds of Time, 
To make th m jog on merrily with lit'.'- lend' n. 
Like a dead weight thou hangest on the wheels. 



Thou art too young, too full of lusty health 
To talk of dying. 

Vict. Yet I fain woidd die ! 

To go through life, unloving and unloved; 
To feel that thirst and hunger of the bou! 
We cannot still ; that longing, that, wild impulse, 
And struggle after something we have not 
And cannot have ; the effort to be strong; 
And, like the Spartan boy, to smile, and smile. 
While secret wounds do bleed beneath our cloaks ; 
All this the dead feel not, — the dead alone! 
Would I were with them ! 

Hyp. We shall all be soon. 

1 Act. It cannot be too soon ; for I am weary 
Of the bewildering masquerade of Life, 
Where strangers walk as friends, and friends as 

strangers; 
Where whispers overheard betray false hearts; 
And through the mazes of the crowd we chase 
Some form of loveliness, that smiles and beckons, 
And cheats us with fair words, only to leave us 
A mockery and a j st ; maddened, — confused, — 
Not knowing friend from foe. 

Hyp. "Why seek to know ? 

Enjoy the merry shrove-tide of thy youth ! 
Take each fair mask for what it gives itself, 
Nor strive to look beneath it. 

Vict. I confess, 

That were the wiser part. But Hope no longer 
Comforts my soul. I am a wretched man, 
Much like a poor and shipwrecked mariner, 
Who, struggling to climb up into the boat, 
Has both his bruised and bleeding hands cut off, 
And sinks again into the weltering sea, 
Helpless and hopeless ! 

Hyp. Yet thou shait not perish. 

Tue strength of thine own arm is thy salvation. 
Above thy head, through rifted clouds, there 

shines 
A glorious star. Be patient. Trust thy star ! 

{Sound of a village bell in the distance.) 

Vict. Ave Maria ! I hear the sacristan 
Ringing the chimes from yonder village belfry ! 
A solemn sound, that echoes far and wide 
Over the red roofs of the cottages, 
And bids the laboring hind a-rield, the shepherd, 
Guarding his flock, the lonely muleteer, 
And all the crowd in village streets, stand still, 
And breathe a prayer unto the blessed Virgin ! 
Hyp. Amen ! amen ! Not half a league from 
hence 
The village lies. 

Vu t. This path will lead us to it, 

Over the wheat-fields, where the shadows sail 
Across the running sea, now green, now blue, 
And, like an idle mariner on the main, 
Whistles the quail. Come, let us hasten on. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE II. — Public square in the village of 
Quadarrama. The Ave Maria still tolling. 
A crowd of villagers, villi their hats in their 
hands, 'is if in prayer. In front, <i group of 
Gypsies, The bell rings a merrier peal. A 
Gypsy dunce. Enter Pancho, followed by 
Pedro Chespo. 

Pancho. Make room, ye vagabonds and Gypsy 
thieves ! 
M vice room for the Alcalde and for me ! 

Pedro C. Keep silence all ! I have an edict 
here 
From our most gracious lord, the King of Spain, 
Jerusalem, and the Canary Islands, 
Which 1 shall publish in the market-place. 
Open your ears and listen ! 

{Enter the Padue Cura at the door of his 
cottage.) 



58 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



Padre Cur a, 
Good day ! and, pray you, hear this edict read. 
Padre G. Good day, and God be with you ! 

Pray, what is it ? 
Pedro V. An act of banishment against the 
Gypsies ! 

{Agitation and murmurs in the crowd.) 

Pancho. Silence ! 

Pedro C. {reads). "I hereby order and com- 
mand, 
That the Egyptian and Chaldean strangers, 
Known by the name of Gypsies, shall henceforth 
Be banished from the realm, as vagabonds 
And beggars ; and if, after seventy days, 
Any be found within our kingdom's bounds, 
They shall receive a hundred lashes each ; 
The second time, shall have their ears cut off; 
The third, be slaves for life to him who takes 

them, 
Or burnt as heretics. Signed, I, the King. " 
Vile miscreants and creatures unbaptized ! 
You hear the law ! Obey and disappear ! 
Pancho. And if in seventy days you are not 
gone, 
Dead or alive I make you all my slaves. 

{The Gypsies go out in confusion, shotoing signs 
of fear and discontent. Panhco follotos.) 

Padre C. A righteous law ! A very righteous 
law ! 
Pray you, sit down. 
Pedro G. I thank you heartily. 

( They seat themselves on a bench at the Padre 
Cura's door. Sound of guitars heard at a 
distance, approaching during the dialogue 
which follows.) 

A very righteous judgment, as you say. 

Now tell me, Padre Cura, — you know all 

things, — 
How came these Gypsies into Spain ? 

Padre C. Why, look you ; 

They came with Hercules from Palestine, 
And hence are thieves and vagrants, Sir Alcalde, 
As the Simoniacs from Simon Magus. 
And, look you, as Fray Jayme Bleda says, 
There are a hundred marks to prove a Moor 
Is not a Christian, so 't is with the Gypsies. 
They never marry, never go to mass, 
Never baptize their children, nor keep Lent, 
Nor see the inside of a church, — nor — nor — 

Pedro C. Good reasons, good, substantial 
reasons all ! 
No matter for the other ninety-five. 
They should be burnt, I see it plain enough, 
They should be burnt. 

(Enter Victorian and Hypolito playing.) 

Padre G. And pray, whom have we here ? 

Pedro G. More vagrants ! By Saint Lazarus, 
more vagrants ! 

Hyp. Good evening, gentlemen ! Is this 
Gaudarrama ? 

Padre G. Yes, Gaudarrama, and good even- 
ing to you. 

Hyp. We seek the Padre Cura of the village ; 
And, judging from your dress and reverend 

mien, 
You must be he. 

Padre 0. I am. Pray, what 's 

your pleasure ? 

Hyp. We are poor students, travelling in vaca- 
tion. 
You know this mark ? 

{Touching the wooden spoon in Ms hat-band.") 



Padre G. {joyfully). Ay, know it, and have 
worn it. 

Pedro G. {aside). Soup-eaters ! by the mass ! 
The worst of vagrants ! 
And there 's no law against them. Sir, your ser- 
vant. [Exit. 

Padre G. Your servant, Pedro Crespo. 

Hyp. Padre Cura, 

Prom the first moment I beheld your face, 
I said within myself, " This is the man ! " 
There is a certain something in your looks, 
A certain scholar-like and studious something, — 
You understand, — which cannot be mistaken; 
Which marks you as a very learned man, 
In fine, as one of us. 

Vict, {aside). What impudence ! 

Hyp. As we approached, I said to my com- 
panion, 
" That is the Padre Cura ; mark my words !" 
Meaning your Grace. " The other man," said I, 
w Who sits so awkwardly upon the bench, 
Must be the sacristan." 

Padre G. Ah ! said you so ? 

Why, that was Pedro Crespo, the alcalde ! 

Hyp. Indeed! you much astonish me! His 
air 
Was not so full of dignity and grace 
As an alcalde's should be. 

Padre G. That is true. 

He 's out of humor with some vagrant Gypsies, 
Who have their camp here in the neighborhood. 
There 's nothing so undignified as anger. 

Hyp . The Padre Cura will excuse our bold- 
ness, 
If, from his well-known hospitality, 
We crave a lodging for the night. 

Padre G. I pray you ! 

You do me honor ! I am but too happy 
To have such guests beneath my humble root. 
It is not often that I have occasion 
To speak with scholars ; and Emollit mores, 
JVec sinit esse feros, Cicero says. 

Hyp. 'T is Ovid, is it not ? 

Padre G. No, Cicero. 

Hyp. Your Grace is right. You are the bet- 
ter scholar. 
Now what a dunce was I to think it Ovid ! 
But hang me if it is not ! {Aside.) 

Padre G. Pass this way. 

He was a very great man, was Cicero ! 
Pray you, go in, go in ! no ceremony. [Exeunt. 



Scene III. — A room in the Padre Cura's house. 
Enter the Padre and Hypolito. 

Padre C. So then, Sefior, you come from 
Alcala. 
I am glad to hear it. It was there I studied. 

Hyp. And left behind an honored name, no 
doubt. 
How may I call your Grace ? 

Padre G. Gerdnimo 

De Santillana, at your Honor's service. 

Hyp. Descended from the Marquis Santil- 
lana ? 
From the distinguished poet ? 

Padre G. From the Marquis, 

Not from the poet. 

Hyp. Why, they were the same. 

Let me embrace you ! O some lucky star 
Has brought me hither ! Yet once more ! — once 

more ! 
Your name is ever green in Alcala, 
And our professor, when we are unruly, 
Will shake his hoary head, and say, "Alas ! 
It was not so in Santillana's time ! " 

Padre C. I did not think my name remem- 
bered there. 

Hyp. More than remembered ; it is idolized. 

Padre G. Of what professor speak you ? 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



59 



Hyp. Timoneda. 

Padre C. I don't remember any Timoneda. 
Hyp. A grave and sombre man, whose 
beetling brow 
O'erhangs the rushing current of his speech 
As rocks o'er rivers hang. Have you forgotten ? 
Padre 0. Indeed, I have. O, those were 
pleasant days, 
Those college days ! I ne'er shall see the like ! 
I had not buried then so many hopes ! 
I had not buried then so many friends ! 
I 've turned my back on what was then before 

me ; 
And the bright faces of my young companions 
Are wrinkled like my own, or are no more. 
Do you remember Cueva ? 
Hyp. Cueva? Cueva? 

Padre C. Fool that I am ! He was before 
your time. 
You 're a mere bo5 r , and I am an old man. 

Hyp. I should not like to try my strength 

with you. 
Padre C. Well, well. But I forget ; you must 
be hungry. 
Martina ! ho ! Martina ! 'T is my niece. 

(Enter Martina. ) 

Hyp. You may be proud of such a niece as 
that. 
I wish I had a niece. Emollit mores. (Aside}. 
He was a very great man. was Cicero ! 
Your servant, fair Martina. 

Marl. Servant, sir. 

Padre C. This gentleman is hungry. See 
thou to it. 
Let us have supper. 

Mart. 'T will be ready soon. 

Padre C. And bring a bottle of my Val-de- 
Penas 
Out of the cellar. Stay ; I '11 go myself. 
Pray you, Sefior, excuse me. [Frit. 

Hyp. Hist ! Martina ! 

One word with you. Bless me ! what handsome 

eyes ! 
To-day there have been Gypsies in the village 
Is it not so ? 

Mart. There have been Gypsies here. 

Hyp. Yes, and have told your fortune. 

Mart, (embarrassed'). Told my fortune ? 

Hyp. Yes, yes ; I know they did. Give me 
your hand. 
I '11 tell you what they said. They said, — they 

said, 
The shepherd boy that loved you was a clown, 
And him you should not marry. Was it not ? 

Mart, (surprised). How know you that ? 

Hyp. O, I know more than that. 

What a soft, little hand ! And then they said, 
A cavalier from court, handsome, and tall 
And rich, should come one day to marry you, 
And you should be a lady. Was it not ? 
He has arrived, the handsome cavalier. 
(Tries to kiss her. She runs off. Enter Victor- 
ian, icith a letter.) 

Vict. The muleteer has come. 

Hyp. So soon ? 

Vict. I found him 

Sitting at supper by the tavern door, 
And, from a pitcher that he held aloft 
His whole arm's length, drinking the blood-red 
wine. 

Hyp. What news from Court ? 
Vict. He brought this letter only. 

(Reads.) 

O cursed perfidy ! Why did I let 

That lying tongue deceive me ! Preciosa, 

Sweet Preciosa ! how art thou avenged ! 



Hyp. What news is this, that makes thy cheek 
turn pale, 
And th} r hand tremble ? 

Vict. O, most infamous ! 

The Count of Lara is a worthless villian ! 
Hyp. That is no news, forsooth. 
Vict. He strove in vain 

To steal from me the jewel of my soul, 
The love of Preciosa. Not succeeding, 
He swore to be revenged ; and set on foot 
A plot to ruin her, which has succeeded. 
She has been hissed and hooted from the stage, 
| Her reputation stained by slanderous lies 
J Too foul to speak of ; and, once more a beggar, 
j She roams a wanderer over God's green earth, 
Housing with Gypsies ! 

Hyp. To renew again 

1 The Age of Gold, and make the shepherd swains 
Desperate with love, like Gasper Gil's Diana. 
Itcdit et Virgo ! 

Vict. Dear Hypolito, 

How have I wronged that meek, confiding heart ! 
I will go seek for her ; and with my tears 
Wash out the wrong I've done her ! 

Hyp. O beware ! 

Act not that folly o'er again. 

Viet. Ay, folly, 

Delusion, madness, call it what thou wilt, 
I will confess my weakness,— I still love her ! 
Still fondly love her ! 

(Enter the Padre Ccra.) 

Hyp. Tell us, Padre Cura, 

Who are these Gypsies in the neighborhood ? 

Padre C. Beftran Cruzado and his crew. 

Vict. Kind Heaven, 

I thank thee ! She is found ! is found again ! 

Hyp. And have they witii them a pale, beauti- 
ful girl, 
Called Preciosa ? 

Padre C. Ay, a pretty girl. 

The gentleman seems moved. 

Hyp. Yes, moved with hunger, 

He is half famished with this long day's journey. 

Padre C. Then, pray you, come this way. The 
supper waits. [Exeunt. 



Scene IV — A post-house on the road to Segovia. 
not far from the village of Gaudarrama. Enter 
Chispa, cracking a whip, and singing the ea- 
ch ucha. 

Chis])a. Halloo! Don Fulano ! Let us have 
horses, and quickly. Alas, poor Chispa ! what a 
dog's life dost thou lead ! I thought, when I left 
my old master Victorian, the student, to serve 
my new master Don Carlos, the gentleman, that 
I, too, should lead the life of a gentleman ; should 
go to bed early, and get up late. For when the 
abbot plays cards, what can you expect of the 
friars ? But, in running away from the thunder, 
I have run into the lightning. Here I am in hot 
chase after my master and his Gypsy girl. And 
a good beginning of the week it is, as he said who 
was hanged on Monday morning. 

(Enter Don Carlos.) 

Don C. Are not the horses readv yet ? 

Chispa. I should think not, for the hostler 
seems to be asleep. Ho ! within there ! Horses ! 
horses! horses! (He knocks at the gate with his 
whip, and enter Mosquito. 2^dt>nc/on his jacket.') 

Mosq. Pray, have a little patience. I 'm not 
a musket. 

Chixjya. Health and pistareens ! I'm glad to 
see you come on dancing, padre ! Pray, what 's 
the news ? 

Mosq. You cannot have fresh horses ; because 
I there are none. 



GO 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



Chispa. Cachiporra ! Throw that bone to an- 
other dog. Do I look like your aunt ? 

Mosq. No ; she has a beard. 

Chispa. Go to ! go to ! 

Mosq. Are you from Madrid ? 

Chispa. Yes ; and going to Estramadura. Get 
us horses. 

Mosq. What 's the news at Court ? 

Chispa. Why, the latest news is, that I am go- 
ing to set up a coach, and I have already bought 
the whip. 

(Strikes him round the legs.) 

Mosq. Oh ! oh ! you hurt me ! 

Bon C. Enough of this folly. Let us have 
horses. [Gives money to Mosquito.) It is al- 
most dark ; and we are in haste. But tell me, has 
a band of Gypsies passed this way of late ? 

Mosq. Yes ; and they are still in the neighbor- 
hood. 

Don C. And where ? 

Mosq. Across the. fields yonder, in the woods 
near Gaudarrama. [Exit. 

Don C. Now this is lucky. We will visit the 
Gypsy camp. 

Chispa. Are you not afraid of the evil eye ? 
Have you a stag's horn with you ? 

Don C. Fear not. We will pass the night at 
the village. 

Chispa. And sleep like the Squires of Hernan 
Daza, nine under one blanket. 

Don C. I hope we may find the Preciosa 
among them. 

Chispa. Among the Squires ? 

Don C. No ; among the Gpysies, blockhead ! 

Chupa. I hope we may ; for we are giving our- 
selves trouble enough on her account. Don't you 
think so? However, there is no catching trout 
without wetting one's trousers. Yonder come the 
horses. [Exeunt. 



Scene V. — The Gypsy camp in the forest. 
Night. Gypsies working at a forge. Others play- 
ing cards by the firelight. 

Gypsies {at the forge sing). 

On the top of a mountain I stand, 
With a crown of red gold in my hand, 
Wild Moors come trooping over the lea, 
O how from their fury shall I flee, flee, flee ? 
O how from their fury shall I flee ? 

First Gypsy {playing). Down with your John- 
Dorados, my pigeon. Down with your John-Dora- 
dos, and let us make an end. 

Gypsies (at the forge sing). 

Loud sang the Spanish cavalier, 

And thus his ditty ran ; 
God send the Gypsy lassie here, 

And not the Gypsy man. 

First Gypsy {playing). There you are in your 
morocco ! 

Second Gypsy. One more game. The Alcalde's 
doves against the Padre Cura's new moon. 

First Gypsy. Have at you, Chirelin. 

Gypsies {at the forge sing). 

At midnight, when the moon began 

To show her silver flame, 
There came to him no Gypsy man, 

The Gypsy lassie came. 

(Enter Beltran Cruzado.) 

Cruz. Come hither, Murcigalleros and Rastil- 
leros; leave work, leave play; listen to your 
orders for the night. {Speaking to the right.) 
You will get you to the village, mark you, by the 
stone cross. 



Gypsies. Ay ! 

Cruz, {to the left). And you, by the pole with 
the hermit's head upon it. 

Gypsies. Ay ! 

Cruz. As soon as you see the planets are out, 
in with you, and be busy with the ten command- 
ments, under the sly, and Saint Martin asleep. 
D'ye hear ? 

Gypsies. Ay ! 

Cruz. Keep your lanterns open, and, if you 
see a goblin or a papagayo, take to your trampers. 
Vineyards and Dancing John is the word. Am I 
comprehended ? 

Gypsies. Ay ! ay ! 

Cruz. Away, then ! 

{Exeunt severally. Cruzado walks up the stage, 
and disappears among the trees. Enter Pre- 
ciosa.) 

Free. How strangely gleams through the gi- 
gantic trees 
The red light of the forge ! Wild, beckoning 

shadows 
Stalk through the forest, ever and anon 
Rising and bending with the flickering flame, 
Then flitting into darkness ! So within me 
Strange hopes and fears do beckon to each other, 
My brightest hopes giving dark fears a being 
As the light does the shadow. Woe is me ! 
How still it is about me, and how lonely ! 
/ 
(Bartolome rushes in. ) 

Bart. Ho ! Preciosa ! 

Free. O Bartolome ! 

Thou here ? 

Bart. Lo ! I am here . 

Free. Whence comest thou ? 

Bart. From the rough ridges of the wild 
Sierra, 
From caverns in the rocks, from hunger, thirst, 
And fever ! Like a wild wolf to the sheepfold 
Come I for thee, my lamb. 

Free O touch me not ! 

The Count of Lara's blood is on thy hands ! 
The Count of Lara's curse is on thy soul ! 
Do not come near me ! Pray, begone from here ! 
Thou art in danger ! They have set a price 
Upon thy head ! 

Bart. Ay, and I've wandered long 

Among the mountains ; and for many days 
Have seen no human face, save the rough swine- 
herd's. 
The wind and rain have been my sole compan- 
ions. 
I shouted to them from the rocks thy name, 
And the loud echo sent it back to me, 
Till I grew mad. I could not stay from thee, 
And I am here ! Betray me, if thou wilt. 

Free. Betray thee ? I betray thee ? 

Bart. Preciosa ! 

I come for thee ! for thee I thus brave death ! 
Fly with me o'er the borders of this realm ! 
Fly with me ! 

Free. Speak of that no more. I 

cannot. 
I' m thine no longer. 

Bart. O, recall the time 

When we were children ! how we played together, 
How we grew up together ; how we plighted 
Our hearts unto each other, even in childhood ! 
Fulfil thy promise, for the hour has come. 
I' m hunted from the kingdom, like a wolf ! 
Fulfil thy promise. 

Free. 'T was my father's promise, 

Not mine. I never gave my heart to thee, 
Nor promised thee my hand ! 

Bart. False tongue of woman ! 

And heart more false ! 

Free. Nay, listen unto me. 

I will speak frankly. I have never loved thee ; 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



61 



I cannot love thee. This is not my fault, 

It is my destiny. Thou art a man 

Restless and violent. What wouldst thou with 

me, 
A feeble girl, who have not long to live, 
Whose heart is broken ? Seek another wife, 
Better than I, and fairer ; and let not 
Thy rash and headlong moods estrange her from 

thee. 
Thou art unhappy in this hopeless passion. 
I never sought thy love ; never did aught 
To make thee love me. Yet I pity thee, 
And most of all I pity thy wild heart, 
That hurries thee to crimes and deeds of blood. 
Beware, beware of that. 

Bart. For thy dear sake 

I will be gentle. Thou shalt teach me patience. 

Prec. Then take this farewell, and depart in 
peace. 
Thou must not linger here. 

Bart. Come, come with me. 

Prec. Hark ! I hear footsteps. 

Bart. I entreat thee, come ! 

Prec. Away ! It is in vain. 

Bart. Wilt thou not come ? 

Prec. Never ! 

Bart. Then woe, eternal woe, 

upon thee ! 
Thou shalt not be another's. Thou shalt die. 

[Exit. 

Prec. All holy angels keep me in this hour ! 
Spirit of her who bore me, look upon me ! 
Mother of God, the glorified, protect me ! 
Christ and the saints, be merciful unto me ! • 
Yet why should I fear death ? What is it to die ? 
To leave all disappointment, care, and sorrow, 
To leave all falsehood, treachery, and unkind- 

ness, 
All ignominy, suffering, and despair, 
And be at rest forever ! O dull heart, 
Be of good cheer ! When thou shalt cease to 

beat, 
Then shalt thou cease to suffer and complain ! 

{Enter Victorian and Hypolito behind.) 

Vict. 'T is she ! Behold, how beautiful she 
stands 
Under the tent-like trees ! 

Hyj). A woodland nymph ! 

Vict. I pray thee, stand aside. Leave me. 
Hyp. Be wary. 

Do not betray thyself too soon. 

Vict, [disguising his voice). Hist ! Gypsy ! 
Prec (aside, with emotion). That voice ! that 
voice from heaven ! O speak again ! 
Who is it calls ? 

Vict. A friend. 

Prec. (aside). 'T is he ! 'T is he ! 

I thank thee, Heaven, that thou hast heard my 

prayer, 
And sent me this protector ! Now be strong, 
Be strong, my heart ! I must dissemble here. 
False friend or true ? 

Vict. A true friend to the true ; 

Fear not ; come hither. So ; can you tell for- 
tunes ? 
Prec. Not in the dark. Come nearer to the 
fire. 
Give me your hand. It is not crossed, I see. 
Vict, (putting a piece of gold into her hand.) 

There is the cross. 
Prec. Is 't silver. 

Vict. No, 't is gold. 

Prec. There 's a fair lady at the Court, who 
loves you, 
And for yourself alone. 

Vict. Fie ! the old story ! 

Tell me a better fortune for my money ; 
Not this old woman's tale ! 



Prec. You are passionate ; 

And this same passionate humor in your blood 
Has marred your fortune. Yes ; I see it now ; 
The line of life is crossed by many marks. 
Shame ! shame ! O you have wronged the maid 

who loved you ! 
How could you do it ? 

Vict. I never loved a maid ; 

For she I loved was then a maid no more. 
Prec. How know you that ? 
Vict. A little bird in the air 

Whispered the secret. 

Prec. There, take back your gold ! 

Your hand is cold, like a deceiver's hand! 
I There is no blessing in its charity ! 
I Make her your wife, for you have been abused ; 
I And you shall mend your fortunes, mending hers. 
Vict, (aside). How like an angel's speaks the 
tongue of woman, 
I When pleading in another's cause her own ! 
■ That is a pretty ring upon your finger. 
! Pray give it me. {Tries to take the ring.) 

Prec No ; never from my hand 

i Shall that be taken ! 

Vict. Why, 't is but a ring. 

| I'll give it back to you ; or, if I keep it, 
! Will give you gold to buy you twenty such. 
Prec. Why would you have this ring ? 
Vict. A traveller's fancy, 

! A whim, and nothing more. I would fain keep it 
| As a memento of the Gypsy camp 
! In Guadarrama, and the fortune-teller 
I Who sent me back to wed a widowed maid. 
I Pray, let me have the ring. 

Prec. No, never ! never ! 

I will not part with it, even when I die ; 
But bid my nurse fold my pale fingers thus, 
That it may not fall from them. 'T is a token 
Of a beloved friend, who is no more. 

Vict. How ? dead ? 

Prec. Yes ; dead to me ; and worse than dead. 
He is estranged ! And yet I keep this ring. 
I will rise with it from my grave hereafter, 
To prove to him that I was never false. 

Vict, (aside). Be still, my swelling heart! 
one moment, still ! 
Whj r , 't is the folly of a love-sick girl. 
Come, give it me, or I will say 't is mine, 
And that you stole it. 

Prec. O, you will not dare 

To utter such a falsehood ! 

Vict. I not dare ? 

Look in my face, and say if there is aught 
I have not dared, I would not dare for thee ! 

(She rushes into his am?*. ) 

Prec. 'T is thou ! 't is thou ! Yes ; yes ; my 
heart's elected ! 
My dearest-dear Victorian ! my soul's heaven ! 
Where hast thou been so long ? Why didst thou 
leave me '? 
Viet. Ask me not now, my dearest Preciosa. 
Let me forget we ever have been parted ! 
Prec. Hadst thou not come — 
Vict. I pray thee, do not chide me ! 
Prec. I should have perished here among 

these Gypsies. 
Vict. Forgive me, sweet ! for what I made 
thee suffer. 
Think'st thou this heart could feel a moment's 

joy, 

Thou being absent '? O, believe it not ! 
Indeed, since that sad hour I have not slept, 
For thinking of the wrong I did to thee! 
Dost thou forgive me ? Say, wilt thou forgive 

me? 
Prec. I have forgiven thee. Ere those words 

of anger 
Were in the book of Heaven writ down against 

thee, 
I had forgiven thee. 



G2 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



Vict. I 'm the veriest fool 

That walks the earth, to have believed thee false. 
It was the Count of Lara — 

Prec. That bad man 

Has worked me harm enough. Hast thou not 
heard — 

Vict. I have heard all. And yet speak on, 
speak on ! 
Let me but hear thy voice, and I am happy ; 
For every tone, like some sweet incantation, 
Calls up the buried past to plead for me. 
Speak, my beloved, speak into my heart, 
Whatever fills and agitates thine own. 

{They walk aside.) 

Hyp. All gentle quarrels in the pastoral poets, 
All passionate love scenes in the best romances, 
All chaste embraces on the public stage, 
All soft adventures, which the liberal stars 
Have winked at, as the natural course of things, 
Have been surpassed here by my friend, the 

student, 
And this sweet Gypsy lass, fair Preciosa ! 

Prec. Sefior Hypolito ! I kiss your hand. 
Pray, shall I tell your fortune ? 

Hyp. Not to-night ; 

For, should you treat me as you did Victorian, 
And send me back to marry maids forlorn, 
My wedding day would last from now till Christ- 
mas. 

C7iisp a (within). What ho ! the Gypsies, ho ! 
Beltran Cruzado ! 
Halloo ! halloo ! halloo ! halloo ! 

(Enters booted, with a whip and lantern.) 

Vict. What now ? 

Why such a fearful din ? Hast thou been 
robbed ? 

Chispa. Ay, robbed and murdered ; and good 
evening to you, 
My worthy masters. 

Vict. Speak ; what brings thee here ? 

Chispa (to Preciosa). Good news from Court ; 
good news ! Beltran Cruzado, 
The Count of the Cales, is not your father, 
But your true father has returned to Spain 
Laden with wealth. You are no more a Gypsy. 

Vict. Strange as a Moorish tale ! 

Chispa. And we have all 

Been drinking at the tavern to your health, 
As wells drink in November, when it rains. 

Vict. Where is the gentleman ? 

Chispa. As the old song says, 

His body is in Segovia, 
His soul is in Madrid. 

Prec. Is this a dream ? O, if it be a dream, 
Let me sleep on, and do not wake me yet ! 
Repeat thy story ! Say I 'm not deceived ! 
Say that I do not dream ! I am awake ; 
This is the Gypsy camp ; this is Victorian, 
And this his friend, Hypolito ! Speak ! speak ! 
Let me not wake and find it all a dream ! 

Vict. It is a dream, sweet child ! a waking 

dream, 
A blissful certainty, a vision bright 
Of that rare happiness, which even on earth 
Heaven gives to those it loves. Now art thou 

rich, 
As thou wast ever beautiful and good ; 
And I am now the beggar. 

Prec. {(jiving him her hand). I have still 
A hand to give. 

Chispa (aside). And I have two to take. 
I 've heard my grandmother say, that Heaven 

gives almonds 
To those who have no teeth. That 's nuts to 

crack. 
I 've teeth to spare, but where shall I find 

almonds ? 



Vict. What more of this strange story ? 

Chispa. Nothing more. 

Your friend, Don Carlos, is now at the village 
Showing to Pedro Crespo, the Alcalde, 
The proofs of what I tell you. The old hag, 
Who stole you in your childhood, has confessed ; 
And probably they '11 hang her for the crime, 
To make the celebration more complete. 

Vict. No ; let it be a day of general joy-; 
Fortune comes well to all, that comes not late. 
Now let us join Don Carlos. 

Hyp. So farewell, 

The student's wandering life ! Sweet serenades, 
Sung under ladies' windows in the night, 
And all that makes vacation beautiful ! 
To you, ye cloistered shades of Alcala, 
To you, ye radiant visions of romance, 
Written in books, but here surpassed by truth, 
The Bachelor Hypolito returns, 
And leaves the Gypsy with the Spanish Student. 



Scene VI. — A pass in the Guadarrama moun- 
tains. Early morning. A muleteer crosses the 
stage, sitting sideways on his mule, and lighting 
a paper cigar withjiint and steel. 



If thou art sleeping, maiden, 

Awake and open thy door, 
'T is the break of day, and we must away, 

O'er meadow, and mount, and moor. 

Wait not to find thy slippers, 

But come with thy naked feet , 
We shall have to pass through the dewy grass, 

And waters wide and fleet. 

(Disappears down the pass. Enter a Monk. A 
i shepherd appears on the rocks above. ) 

Monk. Ave Maria, gratia plena. Ola ! good 

man ! 
Shep. Ola ! 

Monk. Is this the road to Segovia ? 
/Shep. It is, your reverence. 
Monk. How far is it ? 
Shep. I do not know. 
Monk, What is that yonder in the valley ? 
Shep. San Ildefonso. 
Monk. A long way to breakfast. 
Shep. Ay, marry. 

Monk. Are there robbers in these mountains ? 
Shep. Yes, and worse than that. 
Monk. What ? 
Shep. Wolves. 

Monk. Santa Maria ! Come with me to San 
Ildefonso, and thou shalt be well rewarded. 
Shep. What wilt thou give me? 
Monk. An Agnus Dei and my benediction. 

(They disappear. A mounted Contrabandista 
passes, wrapped in his cloak, and a gun at his 
saddle-bow. He goes down tliejjass singing.) 



Worn with speed is my good steed, 

And I march me hurried, worried ! 

Onward, cabillito mio, 

With the white star in thy forehead ! 

Onward, for here comes the Ronda, 

And I hear their rifles crack ! 

Ay, jaleo ! Ay, ay, jaleo ! 

Ay, jal6o ! They cross our track. 

(Song dies away. Enter Preciosa, on horse- 
back, attended by Victorian, Hypolito, Don 
Carlos, and Chispa, on foot, and armed.) 

Vict . This is the highest point. Here let us 
rest. 



CARILLON. 



63 



See, Preciosa, see how all about us 

Kneeling, like hooded friars, the misty mountains 

Receive the benediction of the sun ! 

O glorious sight ! 

Prec. Most beautiful indeed 

Hyp. Most wonderful ! 

Vict. And in the vale below, 

Where yonder steepLs flash like lifted halberds, 
San Ildefonso, from its noisy belfries. 
Sends up a salutation to the morn, 
As if an army smote their brazen shields, 
And shouted victory ! 

Prec. And which way lies 

Segovia ? 

Viet. At a great distance yonder. 

Dost thou not see it ? 

Prec. No. I do not see it. 

Vict. The merest flaw that dents the horizon's 
edge. 
There, yonder ! 

Hyp. 'T is a notable old town, 

Boasting an ancient Roman aqueduct, 
And an Alcazar, builded by the Moors, 
Wherein, you may remember, poor Gil Bias 
Was fed on Pan del Rey. O, many a time 
Out of its grated windows have I looked 
Hundreds of feet plumb down to the Eresma, 
That, like a serpent through the valley creeping, 
Glides at its foot. 

Prec. O yes ! I see it now, 

Yet rather with my heart than with mine eyes, 
So faint it is. And all my thoughts sail thither. 
Freighted with prayers and hopes, and forward 

urged 
Against all stress of accident, as in 
The Eastern Tale, against the wind and tide 
Great ships were drawn to the Magnetic Moun- 
tains, 
And there were wrecked, and perished in the sea ! 

{She weeps.) 
Vict. O gentle spirit ! Thou didst bear un- 
moved 



Blasts of adversity and frosts of fate ! 
But the first ray of sunshine that falls on thee 
Melts thee to tears ! O, let thy weary heart 
Lean upon mine ! and it shall faint no more, 
Nor thirst, nor hunger ; but be comforted 
And filled with my affection. 

Prec. Stay no longer ! 

My father waits. Methinks I see him there, 
Now looking from the window, and now watching 
Each sound of wheels or footfall in the street, 
And saying, "Hark! she comes!" O father! 
father ! 

{They descend the pass. Chispa remains be- 
hind.) 

Chispa. I have a father, too, but he is a dead 
one. Alas and alack-a-day ! Poor was I born, 
and poor do I remain. I neither win nor lose. 
Thus I wag through the world, half the time on 
foot, and the other half walking ; and always as 
merry as a thunder-storm in the night. And so 
we plough along, as the fly said to the ox. Who 
knows what may happen ? Patience, and shuffle 
the cards ! I am not yet so bald that you can see 
my brains ; and perhaps, after all, I shall some 
day go to Rome, and come back Saint Peter. 
Benedicite ! [Exit. 

{A pause. Then enter Baktolome wildly, as if 
in 2>ursuit, ivith a carbine in his hand.) 

Hart. They passed this way ! I hear their 
horses' hoofs ! 
Yonder I see them ! Come, sweet caramillo, 
This serenade shall be the Gypsy's last ! 

{Fires down the pass.) 

Ha ! ha ! Well whistled, my sweet caramillo ! 
Well whistled ! — I have missed her ! — O my God ! 

{The shot is returned. Baetolome falls.) 



THE BELFRY OF BRUGES, 

AND OTHER POEMS. 



CARILLON. 

In the ancient town of Bruges, 
In the quaint old Flemish city, 
As the evening shades descended, 
Low and loud and sweetly blended, 
Low at times and loud at times, 
And changing like a poet's rhymes, 
Rang the beautiful wild chimes 
From the Belfry in the market 
Of the ancient town of Bruges. 

Then, with deep sonorous clangor 
Calmly answering their sweet anger, 
When the wrangling bells had ended, 
Slowly struck the clock eleven, 
And, from out the silent heaven, 
Silence on the town descended. 
Silence, silence everywhere, 
On the earth and in the air. 
Save that footsteps here and there 
Of some burgher home returning. 
By the street lamps faintly burning, 
For a moment woke the echoes 
Of the ancient town of Bruges. 



But amid my broken slumbers 
Still I heard those magic numbers, 
As they loud proclaimed the flight 
And stolen marches of the night ; 
Till their chimes in sweet collision 
Mingled with each wandering vision, 
Mingled with the fortune -telling 
Gypsy-bands of dreams and fancies, 
Which amid the waste expanses 
Of the silent land of trances 
Have their solitary dwelling ; 
All else seemed asleep in Bruges, 
In the quaint old Flemish city. 

And I thought how like these chimes 
Are the poet's airy rhymes. 
All his rhymes and roundelays, 
His conceits, and songs, and ditties, 
From the belfry of his brain. 
Scattered downward, though in vain, 
On the roofs and stones of cities ! 
For by night the drowsy ear 
Under its curtains cannot hear, 
And by day men go their ways, 



04 



THE BELFRY OF BRUGES. 



Hearing the music as they pass, 
But deeming it no more, alas ! 
Than the hollow sound of brass. 

Yet perchance a sleepless wight, 

Lodging at some humble inn 

In the narrow lanes of life, 

When the dusk and hush of night 

Shut out the incessant din 

Of daylight and its toil and strife, 

May listen with a calm delight 

To the poet's melodies, 

Till he hears, or dreams he hears, 



Intermingled with the song, 
Thoughts that he has cherished long; 
Hears amid the chime and singing 
The bells of his own village ringing, 
And wakes, and finds his slumberous eyes 
Wet with most delicious tears. 

Thus dreamed I, as by night I lay 
In Bruges, at the Fleur-de-Ble, 
Listening with a wild delight 
To the chimes that, through the night, 
Rang their changes from the Belfry 
Of that quaint old Flemish city. 




In the market-place of Bruges stands the belfry. 



THE BELFRY OF BRUGES. 

In the market-place of Bruges stands the belfry 

old and brown ; 
Thrice consumed and thrice rebuilded, still it 

watches o'er the town. 

As the summer morn was breaking, on that lofty 

tower I stood, 
And the world threw off the darkness, like the 

weeds of widowhood. 

Thick with towns and hamlets studded, and with 

streams and vapors gray, 
Like a shield embossed with silver, round and 

vast the landscape lay. 

At my feet the city slumbered. From its chim- 
neys, here and there, 

Wreaths of snow-white smoke, ascending, van- 
ished, ghost-like, into air. 



Not a sound rose from the city at that early 

morning hour, 
But I heard a heart of iron beating in the ancient 

tower. 



From their nests beneath the rafters sang the 

swallows wild and high ; 
And the world, beneath me sleeping, seemed 

more distant than the sky: 

Then most musical and solemn, bringing back 

the olden times, 
With their strange, unearthly changes rang the 

melancholy chimes, 

Like the psalms from some old cloister, when 

the nuns sing in their choir ; 
And the great bell tolled among them, like the 

chanting of a friar. 



A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE. 



65 



Visions of the days departed, shadowy phantoms 

tilled my brain ; 
They who live in history only seemed to walk 

the earth again ; 

All the Foresters of Flanders,— mighty Baldwin 

Bras de Fer, 
Lyderick du Bucq and Cressy Philip, Guy de 

Dampierre. 

I beheld the pageants splendid that adorned 

those days of old ; 
Stately dames, like queens attended, knights who 

bore the Fleece of Gold. 

Lombard and Venetian merchants with deep- 
laden argosies ; 

Ministers from twenty nations : more than royal 
pomp and ease. 

I beheld proud Maximilian, kneeling humbly on 

the ground ; 
I beheld the gentle Mary, hunting with her hawk 

and hound ; 

And her lighted bridal-chamber, where a duke 

slept with the queen, 
And the armed guard around them, and the 

sword unsheathed between. 



I beheld the Flemish weavers, with Namur and 

Juliers bold, 
Marching homeward from the bloody battle of 

the Spurs of Gold ; 

Saw the fight at Minnewater, saw the White 

Hoods moving west, 
Saw great Artevelde victorious scale the Golden 

Dragon's nest. 

And again the whiskered Spaniard all the land 
with terror smote ; 

And again the wild alarum sounded from the toc- 
sin's throat ; 

Till the bell of Ghent responded o'er lagoon and 

dike of sand, 
' ' I am Roland ! I am Roland ! there is victory 

in the land !" 

Then the sound of drums aroused me. The 

awakened city's roar 
Chased the phantoms I had summoned back into 

their graves once more. 

Hours had passed away like minutes ; and, before 
I was aware, 

Lo ! the shadow of the belfry crossed the sun- 
illumined square. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE. 

Tins is the place. Stand still, my steed, 

Let me review the scene, 
And summon from the shadowy Past 

The forms that once have been. 

The Past and Present here unite 

Beneath Time's flowing tide, 
Like footprints hidden by a brook, 

But seen on either side. 

Here runs the highway to the town ; 

There the green lane descends, 
Through which I walked to church with thee, 

O gentlest of my friends ! 

The shadow of the linden-trees 

Lay moving on the grass ; 
Between them and the moving boughs, 

A shadow, thou didst pass. 

Thy dress was like the lilies, 

And thy heart as pure as they : 
One of God's holy messengers 

Did walk with me that day. 

I saw the branches of the trees 

Bend down thy touch to meet, 
The clover-blossoms in the grass 

Rise up to kiss thy feet. 

"Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares, 

Of earth and folly born !" 
Solemnly sang the village choir 

On that sweet Sabbath morn. 
5 



Through the closed blinds the golden sun 

Poured in a dusty beam, 
Like the celestial ladder seen 

By Jacob in his dream. 

And ever and anon, the wind, 

Sweet-scented with the hay, 
Turned o'er the hymn-book's fluttering leaves 

That on the window lay. 

Long was the good man's sermon, 

Yet it seemed not so to me ; 
For he spake of Ruth the beautiful, 

And still I thought of thee. 

Long was the prayer he uttered, 

Yet it seemed not so to me ; 
For in my heart I prayed with him, 

And still I thought of thee. 

But now, alas ! the place seems changed ; 

Thou art no longer here : 
Part of the sunshine of the scene 

With thee did disappear. 

Though thoughts, deep-rooted in my heart, 

Like pine-trees dark and high, 
Subdue the light of noon, and breathe 

A low and ceaseless sigh ; 

This memory brightens o'er the past, 

As when the sun, concealed 
Behind some cloud that near us hangs, 

Shines on a distant field. 



66 



THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. -NUREMBERG. 



THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. 

This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, 
Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms ; 

But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing 
Startles the villages with strange alarms. 

Ah ! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary, 
When the death-angel touches those swift 
keys ! 

What loud lament and dismal Miserere 
Will mingle with their awful symphonies ! 

I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus, 
The cries of agony, the endless groan, 

W T hich, through the ages that have gone before 
us, 
In long reverberations reach our own. 

On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer, 
Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's 
song, 

And loud, amid the universal clamor, 

O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong. 

I hear the Florentine, who from his palace 
Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din, 

And Aztec priests upon their teocallis 
Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent's 
skin; 

The tumult of each sacked and burning village ; 

The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns ; 
The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage ; 

The wail of famine in beleaguered towns ; 

The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched 
asunder, 

The rattling musketry, the clashing blade ; 
And ever and anon, in tones of thunder, 

The diapason of the cannonade. 

Is it, O man, with such discordant noises, 
With such accursed instruments as these, 

Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices, 
And j arrest the celestial harmonies ? 

Were half the power, that fills the world with 
terror. 
Were half the wealth, bestowed on camps and 
courts, 
Given to redeem the human mind from error, 
There were no need of arsenals or forts : 

The warrior's name would be a name abhorred ! 

And every nation, that should lift again 
Its hand against a brother, on its forehead 

Would wear forevermore the curse of Cain ! 

Down the dark future, through long generations, 
The echoing sounds grow fainter and then 
cease ; 
And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations, 
I hear once more the voice of Christ say, 
"Peace!" 

Peace ! and no longer from its brazen portals 
The blast of War's great organ shakes the 
skies ! 

But beautiful as songs of the immortals, 
The holy melodies of love arise. 



Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old 

town of art and song, 
Memories haunt thy pointed gables like the rooks 

that round them throng : 

Memories of the Middle Ages, when the emperors, 

rough and bold, 
Had their dwelling in thy castle, time-defying, 

centuries old ; 

And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in 

their uncouth rhyme, 
That their great imperial city stretched its hand 

through every clime. 

In the court-yard of the castle, bound with many 

an iron band, 
Stands the mighty linden planted by Queen 

Cunigunde's hand ; 

On the square the oriel window, where in old he- 
roic days 

Sat the poetMelchior singing Kaiser Maximilian's 
praise. 

| Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous 
world of Art : 

I Fountains wrought with richest sculpture stand- 
ing in the common mart ; 

! And above cathedral doorways saints and bishops 

carved in stone, 
j By a former age commissioned as apostles to our 

own. 



NUREMBERG. 

In the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad 

meadow-lands 
Rbe the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg, 

the ancient, stands. 



In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps enshrined 

his holy dust, 
And in bronze the Twelve Apostles guard from 

age to age their trust ; 

In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a pix of 

sculpture rare. 
Like the foamy sheaf of fountains, rising through 

the painted air. 

Here, when Art was still religion, with a simple, 

reverent heart, 
Lived and labored AlbrechtDurer, the Evangelist 

of Art; 

Hence in silence and in sorrow, toiling still with 

busy hand, 
Like an emigrant he wandered, seeking for the 

Better Land. 

Emigravit is the inscription on the tomb-stone 

where he lies ; 
Dead he is not, but departed, — for the artist 

never dies. 

Fairer seems the ancient city, and the sunshine 

seems more fair, 
That he once has trod its pavement, that he once 

has breathed its air ! 

Through these streets so broad and stately, these 

obscure and dismal lanes, 
Walked of yore the Mastersingers, chanting rude 

poetic strains. 

From remote and sunless suburbs came they to 

the friendly guild, 
Building nests in Fame's great temple, as in 

spouts the swallows build. 

As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he too the 

mystic rhyme, 
And the smith his iron measures hammered to 

the anvil's chime ; 



THE NORMAN BARON.— RAIN IN SUMMER. 



67 



Thanking God, whose boundless wisdom makes 

the flowers of poesy bloom 
In the forge's dust and cinders, in the tissues of 

the loom. 

Here Hans Sachs, the cobbler-poet, laureate of the 

gentle craft, 
Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters, in huge folios 

sang and laughed. 

But his house is now an ale-house, with a nicely 

sanded floor, 
And a garland in the window, and his face above 

the door ; 

Painted by some humble artist, as in Adam 

Puschman's song. 
As the old man gray and dove-like, with his 

great beard white and long. 

Ana at night the swart mechanic comes to drown 

his cark and care, 
Quaffing ale from pewter tankards, in the master's I 

antique chair. 



Vanished is the ancient splendor, and before my 

dreamy eye 
Wave these mingled shapes and figures, like a 

faded tapestry. 

Not thy Councils, not thy Kaisers, win for thee 

the world's regard ; 
But thy painter, Albrecht Diircr, and Hans Sachs 

thy cobbler-bard. 

Thus, O Nuremberg, a wanderer from a region 

far away, 
As he paced thy streets and court-yards, sang in 

thought his careless lay : 

Gathering from the pavement's crevice, as a 

floweret of the soil, 
The nobility of labor, — the long pedigree of toil. 



THE NORMAN BARON. 

Dans les moments de la vie on la reflexion devient 
plus calme et plus profonde, oil l'interet ct l'avarice par- 
lent moins haut que la rai-on, dans les instants de cha- 
grin doinestique, de maladie : etde peril de mort, les no- 
bles se repentirent de posseder des serfs, comme d'une 
chose pen agreable a Dieu, qui avait eree tons les 
homines a son image. 

Thierry, Conquete de V Angleterre. 

In his chamber, weak and dying, 
Was the Norman baron tying ; 
Loud, without, the tempest thundered 
And the castle-turret shook. 

In this fight was Death the gainer, 
Spite of vassal and retainer, 
And the lands his sires had plundered, 
Written in the Doomsday Book. 

Bv his bed a monk was seated, 
Who in humble voice repeated 
Many a prayer and pater-noster, 

From the missal on his knee ; 

And, amid the tempest pealing. 
Sounds of bells came faintly stealing, 
Bells, that from the neighboring kloster 
Rang for the Nativity. 

In the hall, the serf and vassal 

Held, that night, their Christmas wassail ; 

Many a carol, old and saintly, 

Sang the minstrels and the waits ; 



And so loud these Saxon gleemen 
Sang to slaves the songs of freemen, 
That the .storm was heard but faintly, 
Knocking at the castle-gates. 

Till at length the lays they chanted 
Reached the chamber terror-haunted, 
Where the monk, with accents holy, 
Whispered at the baron's ear. 

Tears upon his eyelids glistened, 
As he paused awhile and listened, 
And the dying baron slowly 

Turned his weary head to hear. 

"Wassail for the kingly stranger 
Born and cradled in a manger ! 
King, like David, priest, like Aaron, 
Christ is born to set us free ! " 

And the lightning showed the sainted 
Figures on the casement painted, 
And exclaimed the shuddering baron, 
"Miserere, Domine ! " 

In that hour of deep contrition 
He beheld, with clearer vision, 
Through all outward show and fashion, 
Justice, the Avenger, rise. 

All the pomp of earth had vanished, 
Falsehood and deceit were banished, 
Reason spake more loud than passion, 
And the truth wore no disguise. 

Every vassal of his banner, 
Every serf born to his manor, 
All those wronged and wretched creatures, 
By his hand were freed again. 

And, as on the sacred missal 
He recorded their dismissal, 
Death relaxed his iron features. 

And the monk replied, " Amen ! " 

Many centuries have been numbered 
Since in death the baron slumbered 
By the convent's sculptured portal, 

Mingling with the common dust : 

Bu*^ the good deed, through the ages 
Living in historic pages, 
Brighter grows and gleams immortal, 
Unconsurned by moth or rust. 



RAIN IN SUMMER. 

How beautiful is the rain ! 

After the dust and heat, 

In the broad and fiery street, 

In the narrow lane, 

How beautiful is the rain ! 

How it clatters along the roofs, 

Like the tramp of hoofs ! 

How it gushes and struggles out 

From the throat of the overflowing spout 

Across the window-pane 

It pours and pours ; 

And swift and wide, 

With a muddy tide, 

Like a river down the gutter roars 

The rain, the welcome rain ! 

The sick man from his chamber looks 
At the twisted brooks ; 
He can feel the cool 
Breath of each little pool ; 



TO A CHILD. 



His fevered brain 
Grows calm again, 
And he breathes a blessing on the rain. 

From the neighboring school 

Come the boys, 

With more than their wonted noise 

And commotion ; 

And down the wet streets 

Sail their mimic fleets, 

Till the treacherous pool 

Ingulfs them in its whirling 

And turbulent ocean. 

In the country, on every side, 

Where far and wide, 

Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide, 

Stretches the plain, 

To the dry grass and the drier grain 

How welcome is the rain ! 

In the furrowed land 

The toilsome and patient oxen stand ; 

Lifting the yoke-encumbered head, 

With their dilated nostrils spread, 

They silently inhale 

The clover-scented gale, 

And the vapors that arise 

From the well-watered and smoking soil. 

For this rest in the furrow after toil 

Their large and lustrous eyes 

Seem to tliank the Lord, 

More than man's spoken word. 

Near at hand, 

From under the sheltering trees, 

The farmer sees 

His pastures, and his fields of grain, 

As they bend their tops 

To the numberless beating drops 

Of the incessant rain. 

He counts it as no sin 

That he sees therein 

Only his own thrift and gain. 

These, and far more than these, 

The Poet sees ! 

He can behold 

Aquarius old 

Walking the fenceless fields of air ; 

And from each ample fold 

Of the clouds about him rolled 

Scattering everywhere 

The showery rain, 

As the farmer scatters his grain. 

He can behold 

Things manifold 

That have not yet been wholly told, — 

Have not been wholly sung nor said. 

For his thought, that never stops, 

Follows the water-drops 

Down to the graves of the dead, 

Down through chasms and gulfs profound, 

To the dreary fountain-head 

Of lakes and rivers underground ; 

And sees them, when the rain is done, 

On the bridge of colors seven 

Climbing up once more to heaven, 

Opposite the setting sun. 

Thus the Seer, 

With vision clear, 

Sees forms appear and disappear, 

In the perpetual round of strange, 

Mysterious change 

From birth to death, from death to birth, 

From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth : 

Till glimpses more sublime 

Of things, unseen before, 



Unto his wondering eyes reveal 

The Universe, as an immeasurable wheel 

Turning forevermore 

In the rapid and rushing river of Time. 



TO A CHILD. 

Dear child ! how radiant on thy mother's knee. 

With merry-making eyes and jocund smiles, 

Thou gazest at the painted tiles, 

Whose figures grace, 

With many a grotesque form and face, 

The ancient chimney of thy nursery ! 

The lady with the gay macaw, 

The dancing girl, the grave bashaw 

With bearded lip and chin ; 

And, leaning idly o'er his gate, 

Beneath the imperial fan of state, 

The Chinese mandarin. 

With what a look of proud command 

Thou shakest in thy little hand 

The coral rattle with its silver bells, 

Making a merry tune ! 

Thousands of years in Indian seas 

That coral grew, by slow degrees, 

Until some deadly and wild monsoon 

Dashed it on Coromandel's sand ! 

Those silver bells 

Reposed of yore, 

As shapeless ore, 

Far down in the deep-sunken wells 

Of darksome mines, 

In some obscure and sunless place, 

Beneath huge Chimborazo's base, 

Or Potosi's o'erhanging pines ! 

And thus for thee, O little child, 

Through many a danger and escape, 

The tall ships passed the stormy cape ; 

For thee in foreign lands remote, 

Beneath a burning, tropic clime, 

The Indian peasant, chasing the wild goat, 

Himself as swift and wild, 

In falling, clutched the frail arbute, 

The fibres of whose shallow root, 

Uplifted from the soil, betrayed 

The silver veins beneath it laid, 

The buried treasures of the miser, Time. 

But, lo ! thy door is left ajar ! 

Thou hearest footsteps from afar ! 

And, at the sound, 

Thou turnest round 

With quick and questioning eyes, 

Like one, who, in a foreign land, 

Beholds on every hand 

Some source of wonder and surprise ! 

And, restlessly, impatiently, 

Thou strivest, strugglest, to be free. 

The four walls of thy nursery 

Are now like prison walls to thee. 

No more thy mother's smiles, 

No more the painted tiles, 

Delight thee, nor the playthings on the floor, 

That won thy little, beating heart before ; 

Thou struggiest for the open door. 

Through these once solitary halls 

Thy pattering footstep falls. 

The sound of thy merry voice, 

Makes the old walls 

Jubilant, and they rejoice 

With the joy of thy young heart, 

O'er the light of whose gladness 

No shadows of sadness 

From the sombre background of memory start . 



THE OCCULTATION OF ORION. 



no 



Once, ah, once, within these walls, 
One whom memory oft recalls, 
The Father of his Country, dwelt. 
And yonder meadows broad and damp 
The fires of the besieging camp 
Encircled with a burning belt. 
Up and down these echoing stairs, 
Heavy with the weight of cares, 
Sounded his majestic tread ; 
Yes, within this very room 
Sat he in those hours of gloom, 
Weary both in heart and head. 

But what are these grave thoughts to thee ? 

Out, out ! into the open air ! 

Thy only dream is liberty, 

Thou carest little how or where. 

I see thee eager at thy play, 

Now shouting to the apples on the tree, 

With cheeks as round and red as they ; 

And now among the yellow stalks, 

Among the flowering shrubs and plants, 

As restless as the bee. 

Along the garden walks, 

The tracks of thy small carriage-wheels I trace ; 

And see at every turn how they efface 

Whole villages of sand-roofed tents, 

That rise like golden domes 

Above the cavernous and secret homes 

Of wandering and nomadic tribes of ants. 

Ah, cruel little Tamerlane, 

Who, with thy dreadful reign, 

Dost persecute and overwhelm 

These hapless Troglodytes of thy realm ! 

What ! tired already ! with those suppliant looks, 

And voice more beautiful than a poet's books, 

Or murmuring sound of water as it flows, 

Thou comest back to parley with repose ! 

This rustic seat in the old apple-tree, 

With its o'erhanging golden canopy 

Of leaves illuminate with autumnal hues, 

And shining with the argent light of dews, 

Shall for a season be our place of rest. 

Beneath us, like an oriole's pendent nest, 

From which the laughing birds have taken wing, 

By thee abandoned, hangs thy vacant swing. 

Dream-like the waters of the river gleam ; 

A sailless vessel drops adown the stream, 

And like it, to a sea as wide and deep, 

Thou driftest gently down the tides of sleep. 

child ! O new-born denizen 
Of life's great citj' ! on thy head 
The glory of the morn is shed, 
Like a celestial benison ! 

Here at the portal thou dost stand, 
And with thy little hand 
Thou openest the mysterious gate 
Into the future's undiscovered land. 

1 see its valves expand, 
As at the touch of Fate ! 

Into those realms of love and hate, 

Into that darkness blank and drear, 

By some prophetic feeling taught, 

I launch the bold, adventurous thought, 

Freighted with hope and fear ; 

As upon subterranean streams, 

In caverns unexplored and dark, 

Men sometimes launch a fragile bark, 

Laden with flickering fire, 

And watch its swif c-receding beams, 

Until at length they disappear, 

And in the distant dark expire. 

By what astrology of fear or hope 
Dare I to cast thy horoscope ! 
Like the new moon thy life appears ; 
A little strip of silver light, 
And widening outward into night 
The shadowy disk of future years ; 



And yet upon its outer rim, 

A luminous circle, faint and dim, 

And scarcely visible to us here, 

Bounds and completes the perfect sphere ; 

A prophecy and intimation, 

A pale and feeble adumbration, 

Of the great world of light, that lies 

Behind all human destinies. 

Ah ! if thy fate, with anguish fraught, 
Should be to wet the dusty soil 
With the hot tears and sweat of toil, — 
To struggle with imperious thought, 
Until the overburdened brain, 
Weary with labor, faint with pain, 
Like a jarred pendulum, retain 
Only its motion, not its power, — 
Remember, in that perilous hour, 
When most afflicted and oppressed, 
From labor there shall come forth rest. 

And if a more auspicious fate 
On thy advancing steps await, 
Still let it ever be thy pride 
To linger by the laborer's side ; 
With words of sympathy or song 
To cheer the dreary march along 
j Of the great army of the poor, 
[ O'er desert sand, o'er dangerous moor. 
Nor to thyself the task shall be 
j Without reward ; for thou shalt learn 
j The wisdom early to discern 
! True beauty in utility ; 
As great Pythagoras of yore, 
Standing beside the blacksmith's door, 
And hearing the hammers, as they smote 
The anvils with a different note, 
Stole from the varying tones, that hung 
| Vibrant on every iron tongue, 
j The secret of the sounding wire, 
i And formed the seven-chorded lyre. 

I Enough ! I will not play the Seer ; 
! I will no longer strive to ope 
j The my*tic volume, where appear 
The herald Hope, forerunning Fear, 
And Fear, the pursuivant of Hope. 
Thy destiny remains untold ; 
For, like Acestes' shaft of old, 
The swift thought kindles as it flies, 
And burns to ashes in the skies. 



THE OCCULTATION OF ORION. 

I SAW, as in a dream sublime, 

The balance in the hand of Time. 

O' er East and West its beam impended ; 

And day, with all its hours of light, 

Was slowly sinking out of sight, 

While, opposite, the scale of night 

Silently with the stars ascended. 

Like the astrologers of eld, 
In that bright vision I beheld 
Greater and deeper mysteries. 
I saw, with its celestial keys, 
Its chords of air, its frets of fire, 
The Samian's great ^Folian lyre, 
Rising through all its sevenfold bars, 
From earth unto the fixed stars. 
And through the dewy atmosphere, 
Not only could I see, but hear, 
Its wondrous and harmonious strings, 
In sweet vibration, sphere bj- sphere, 
From Dian's circle light and near, 
Onward to vaster and wider rings, 



THE BRIDGE.— TO THE DRIVING CLOUD. 



Where, chanting through his beard of snows, 
Majestic, mournful, Saturn goes, 
And down the sunless realms of space 
Reverberates the thunder of his bass. 

Beneath the sky's triumphal arch 
This music sounded like a. march, 
And with its chorus seemed to be 
Preluding some great tragedy. 
Sirius was rising in the east ; 
And, slow ascending one by one, 
The kindling constellations shone. 
Begirt with many a blazing star, 
Stood the great giant Algebar, 
Orion, hunter of the beast ! 
His sword hung gleaming by his side, 
And, on his arm, the lion's hide 
Scattered across the midnight air 
The golden radiance of its hair. 

The moon was pallid, but not faint ; 
And beautiful as some fair saint, 
Serenely moving on her way 
In hours of trial and dismay. 
As if she heard the voice of God, 
Unharmed with naked feet she trod 
Upon the hot and burning stars, 
As on the glowing coals and bars, 
That were to prove her strength, and try 
Her holiness and her purity. 

Thus moving on, with silent pace, 

And triumph in her sweet, pale face, 

She reached the station of Orion. 

Aghast he stood in strange alarm ! 

And suddenly from his outstretched arm 

Down fell the red skin of the lion 

Into the river at his feet. 

His mighty club no longer beat 

The forehead of the bull ; but he 

Reeled as of yore beside the sea, 

When, blinded by (Enopion, 

He sought the blacksmith at his forge, 

And, climbing up the mountain gorge, 

Fixed his blank eyes upon the sun. 

Then, through the silence overhead, 

An angel with a trumpet said, 

" Forevermore, forevermore, 

The reign of violence is o'er ! " 

And, like an instrument that flings 

Its music on another's strings, 

The trumpet of the angel cast 

Upon the heavenly lyre its blast, 

And on from sphere to sphere the words 

Re-echoed down the burning chords, — 

"Forevermore, forevermore, 

The reign of violence is o'er ! " 



THE BRIDGE. 

I stood on the bridge at midnight, 
As the clocks were striking the hour, 

And the moon rose o'er the city, 
Behind the dark church-tower. 

I saw her bright reflection 

In the waters under me, 
Like a golden goblet falling 

And sinking into the sea. 

And far in the hazy distance 
Of that lovely night in June, 

The blaze of the flaming furnace 
Gleamed redder than the moon. 



Among the long, black rafters, 

The wavering shadows lay, 
And the current that came from the ocean 

Seemed to lift and bear them away ; 

As, sweeping and eddying through them, 

Rose the belated tide, 
And, streaming into the moonlight, 

The seaweed floated wide. 

And like those waters rushing 

Among the wooden piers, 
A flood of thoughts came o'er me 

That filled my eyes with tears. 

How often, O how often, 

In the days that had gone by, 
I had stood on that bridge at midnight 

And gazed on that wave and sky ! 

How often, O how often, 

I had wished that the ebbing tide 
Would bear me away on its bosom 

O'er the ocean wild and wide ! 

For my heart was hot and restless, 

And my life was full of care, 
And the burden laid upon me 

Seemed greater than I could bear. 

But now it has fallen from me, 

It is buried in the sea ; 
And only the sorrow of others 

Throws its shadow over me. 

Yet whenever I cross the river 
On its bridge with wooden piers, 

Like the odor of brine from the ocean 
Comes the thought of other years. 

And I think how many thousands 

Of care-encumbered men, 
Each bearing his burden of sorrow, 

Have crossed the bridge since then. 

I see the long procession 

Still passing to and fro, 
The young heart hot and restless, 

And the old subdued and slow ! 

And forever and forever, 

As long as the river flows, 
As long as the heart has passions, 

As long as life has woes ; 

The moon and its broken reflection 
And its shadows shall appear, 

As the symbol of love in. heaven, 
And its wavering imageTlere. 



TO THE DRIVING CLOUD. 

Gloomy and dark art thou, O chief of the 

mighty Omahas ; 
! Gloomy and dark as the driving cloud, whose 

name thou hast taken ! 
I Wrapt in thy scarlet blanket, L see thee stalk 

through the city's 
Narrow and populous- streets, as once by the 

margin of rivers 
Stalked those birds unknown, that have left us 

only their footprints. 
What, in a few short years, will remain of tb.3- 

race but the footprints ? 



SEAWEED.— THE DAY IS DONE. 



71 



How canst thou walk these streets, who hast 

trod the green turf of the prairies ? 
How canst thou breathe this air, who hast 

breathed the sweet air of the mountains ? 
Ah ! 't is in vain that with lordly looks of disdain 

thou dost challenge 
Looks of disdain in return, and question these 

walls and these pavements, 
Claiming the soil for thy hunting-grounds, 

while down-trodden millions 
Starve in the garrets of Europe, and cry from its 

caverns that they, too, 
Have been created heirs of the earth, and claim 

its division ! 

Back, then, back to thy woods in the regions 

west of the Wabash ! 
There as a monarch thou reignest. In autumn 

the leaves of the maple 
Pave the floors of thy palace-halls with gold, and 

in summer 
Pine-trees waft through its chambers the odorous 

breath of their branches. 
There thou art strong and great, a hero, a tamer 

of horses ! 
There thou chasest the stately stag on the banks 

of the Elkhorn, 
Or by the roar of the Running-Water, or where 

the Omaha 



Calls thee, and leaps through the wild ravine 
like a brave of the Blackfeet ! 

Hark ! what murmurs arise from the heart of 

those mountainous deserts ? 
Is it the cry of the Foxes and Crows, or the 

mighty Behemoth, 
Who, unharmed, on his tusks once caught the 

bolts of the thunder, 
And now lurks in his lair to destroy the race of 

the red man ? 
Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the 

Crows and the Foxes, 
Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the 

tread of Behemoth, 
Lo ! the big thunder-canoe, that steadily breasts 

the Missouri's 
Merciless current ! and yonder, afar on the 

prairies, the camp-fires 
Gleam through the night ; and the cloud of dust 

in the gray of the daybreak 
Marks not the buffalo's track, nor the Mandan's 

dexterous horse-race ; 
It is a caravan, whitening the desert where dwell 

the Camanches ! 
: Ha ! how the breath of these Saxons and Celts, 

like the blast of the east-wind. 
j Drifts evermore to the west the scanty smokes 

of thy wigwams ! 



SO^TGS. 



SEAWEED 

When descends on the Atlantic 

The gigantic 
Storm-wind of the equinox, 
Landward in his wrath he scourges 

The toiling surges, 
Laden with seaweed from the rocks : 

From Bermuda's reefs ; from edges 

Of sunken ledges, 
In some far-off, bright Azore ; 
From Bahama, and the dashing, 

Silver-flashing 
Surges of San Salvador ; 

From the tumbling surf, that buries 

The Orkneyan skerries, 
Answering the hoarse Hebrides ; 
And from wrecks of ships, and drifting 

Spars, uplifting 
On the desolate, rainy seas ; — 

Ever drifting, drifting, drifting 

On the shifting 
Currents of the restless main ; 
Till in sheltered coves, and reaches 

Of sandy beaches, 
All have found repose again. 

So when storms of wild emotion 

Strike the ocean 
Of the poet's soul, erelong 
From each cave and rocky fastness, 

In its vastness, 
Floats some fragment of a song : 

From the far-off isles enchanted, 

Heaven has planted 
With the golden fruit of Truth ; 



From the flashing surf, whose vision 

Gleams Elysian 
In the tropic clime of Youth ; 

From the strong Will, and the Endeavor 

That forever 
Wrestles with the tides of Fate ; 
From the wreck of Hopes far-scattered, 

Tempest-shattered, 
Floating waste and desolate ; — 

Ever drifting, drifting, drifting 

On the shifting 
Currents of the restless heart ; 
Till at length in books recorded, 

They, like hoarded 
Household words, no more depart. 



THE DAY IS DONE. 

The day is done, and the darkness 
Falls from the wings of Night, 

As a feather is wafted downward 
From an eagle in his flight. 

I see the lights of the village 

Gleam through the rain and the mist, 
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me 

That my soul cannot resist : 

A feeling of sadness and longing, 

That is not akin to pain, 
And resembles sorrow only 

As the mist resembles the rain. 



AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY.— TO AN OLD DANISH SONG-BOOK. 



Come, read to me some poem, 
Some simple and heartfelt lay, 

That shall soothe this restless feeling, 
And banish the thoughts of day. 

Not from the grand old masters, 
Not from the bards sublime, 

Whose distant footsteps echo 
Through the corridors of Time. 

For, like strains of martial music, 
Their mighty thoughts suggest 

Life's endless toil and endeavor ; 
And to-night I long for rest. 

Read from some humbler poet, 

Whose songs gushed from his heart, 

As showers from the clouds of summer, 
Or tears from the eyelids start ; 

Who, through long days of labor, 

And nights devoid of ease, 
Still heard in his soul the music 

Of wonderful melodies. 

Such songs have power to quiet 

The restless pulse of care, 
And come like the benediction 

That follows after prayer. 

Then read from the treasured volume 

The poem of thy choice, 
And lend to the rhyme of the poet 

The beauty of thy voice. 

And the night shall be filled with music, 
And the cares, that infest the day, 

Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, 
And as silently steal away. 



AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY. 

The day is ending, 
The night is descending ; 
The marsh is frozen, 
The river dead. 

Through clouds like ashes 
The red sun flashes 
On village windows 
That glimmer red. 

The snow recommences ; 
The buried fences 
Mark no longer • 

The road o'er the plain ; 

While through the meadows, 
Like fearful shadows, 
Slowly passes 
A funeral train. 

The bell is pealing, 
And every feeling 
Within me responds 
To the dismal knell ; 

Shadows are trailing, 
My heart is bewailing 
And tolling within 
Like a funeral bell. 



TO AN OLD DANISH SONG-BOOK. 

Welcome, my old friend, 
Welcome to a foreign fireside, 
While the sullen gales of autumn 
Shake the windows. 

The ungrateful world 
Has, it seems, dealt harshly with thee, 
Since, beneath the skies of Denmark, 
First I met thee. 

There are marks of age, 
There are thumb-marks on thy margin, 
Made by hands that clasped thee rudely, 
At the ale-house. 

Soiled and dull thou art ; 
Yellow are thy time-worn pages, 
As the russet, rain-molested 
Leaves of autumn. 

Thou art stained with wine 
Scattered from hilarious goblets, 
As the leaves with the libations 
Of Olympus. 

Yet dost thou recall 
Days departed, half -forgotten, 
When in dreamy youth I wandered 
By the Baltic, — 

When I paused to hear 
The old ballad of King Christian 
Shouted from suburban taverns 
In the twilight. 

Thou recallest bards, 

Who, in solitary chambers, 

And with hearts by passion wasted, 

Wrote thy pages. 

Thou recallest homes 
Where thy songs of love and friendship 
Made the gloomy Northern winter 
Bright as summer. 

Once some ancient Scald, 
In his bleak, ancestral Iceland, 
Chanted staves of these old ballads 
To the Vikings. 

Once in El sin ore, 
At the court of old King Hamlet, 
Yorick and his boon companions 
Sang these ditties. 

Once Prince Frederick's Guard 
Sang them in their smoky barracks ; — 
Suddenly the English cannon 
Joined the chorus ! 

Peasants in the field, 
Sailors on the roaring ocean, 
Students, tradesmen, pale mechanics, 
All have sung them. 

Thou hast been their friend ; 
They, alas ! have left thee friendless ! 
Yet at least by one warm fireside 
Art thou welcome. 

And, as swallows build 
In these wide, old-fashioned chimneys, 
So thy twittering songs shall nestle 
In my bosom, — 

Quiet, close, and warm, 
Sheltered from all molestation, 
'And recalling by their voices 
Youth and travel. 



WALTER VON DER VOGELWEID.— THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. 



73 



WALTER VON DER VOGELWEID£ 

VOGBLWBID the Minnesinger, 
When he left this world of ours, 

Laid his body in the cloister, 

Under Wiirtzburg's minster towers. 

And he gave the monks his treasures, 
Gave them all with this behest : 

They should feed the birds at noontide 
Daily on his place of rest ; 

Saying, "From these wandering minstrels 
I have learned the art of song ; 

Let me now repay the lessons 

They have taught so well and long." 

Thus the bard of love departed ; 

And, fulfilling his desire, 
On his tomb the birds were feasted 

By the children of the choir. 

Day by day, o'er tower and turret, 

In foal weather and in fair. 
Day by day, in vaster numbers, 

Flocked the poets of the air. 

On the tree whose heavy branches 

Overshadowed all the place, 
On the pavement, on the tombstone, 

On the poet's sculptured face, 

On the cross-bars of each window, 

On the lintel of each door, 
They renewed the War of Wartburg, 

Which the bard had fought before. 

There they sang their merry carols, 
Sang their lauds on every side ; 

And the name their voices uttered 
Was the name of Vogelweid. 

Till at length the portly abbot 
Murmured, " Why this waste of food ? 

Be it changed to loaves henceforward 
For our fasting brotherhood." 

Then in vain o'er tower and turret, 
From the walls and woodland nests, 

When the minster bells rang noontide, 
Gathered the unwelcome guests. 

Then in vain, with cries discordant, 
Clamorous round the Gothic spire, 

Screamed the feathered Minnesingers 
For the children of the choir. 

Time has long effaced the inscriptions 
On the cloister's funeral stones, 

And tradition only tells us 

Where repose the poet's bones. 

But around the vast cathedral, 

By sweet echoes multiplied, 
Still the birds repeat the legend, 

And the name of Vosrelweid. 



DRINKING SONG. 

INSCRIPTION FOR AN ANTIQUE PITCHER. 

Come, old friend ! sit down and listen ! 

From the pitcher, placed between us, 
How the waters laugh and glisten 

In the head of old Silenus ! 



Old Silenus, bloated, drunken, 

Led by his inebriate Satyrs ; 
On his breast his head is sunken, 

Vacantly he leers and chatters. 

Fauns with youthful Bacchus follow ; 

Ivy crowns that brow supernal 
As the forehead of Apollo, 

And possessing youth eternal. 

Round about him, fair Bacchantes, 
Bearing cymbals, flutes, and thyrses, 

Wild from Xaxian groves, or Zante's 
Vineyards, sing delirious verses. 

Thus he won, through all the nations, 
Bloodless victories, and the farmer 

Bore, as trophies and oblations, 

Vines for banners, ploughs for armor. 

Judged by no o'erzealous rigor, 

Much this mystic throng expresses; 

Bacchus was the type of vigor, 
And Silenus of excesses. 

These are ancient ethnic revels, 
Of a faith long since forsaken ; 

Now the Satyrs, changed to devils, 
Frighten mortals wine-o'ertaken. 

Now to rivulets from the mountains 
Point the rods of fortune-tellers ; 

Youth perpetual dwells in fountains, — 
Not in flasks, and casks, and cellars. 

Claudius, though he sang of flagons 

And huge tankards filled with Rhenish, 

From that fiery blood of dragons 
Never would his own replenish. 

Even Redi, though he chaunted 
Bacchus in the Tuscan valleys, 

Never drank the wine he vaunted 
In his dithyrambic sallies. 

Then with water fill the pitcher 

Wreathed about with classic fables ; 

Ne'er Falernian threw a richer 
Light upon Lucullus' tables. 

Come, old friend, sit down and listen L 

As it passes thus between us, 
How its wavelets laugh and glisten 

In the head of old Silenus ! 



THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. 

I/eternite est une pendule, dont le balancier dit st 
redit sans cesse ces deux mots seulement, dans le silence 
des tombeaux : " Toujours ! jamais ! Jamais ! tou- 
jonrs ! " 

Jacques Bridaine. 

Somewhat back from the village street 

Stands the old-fashioned country-seat. 

Acrcss its antique portico 

Tall poplar trees their shadows throw ; 

And from its station in the hall 

An ancient timepiece says to all, — 

" Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! " 

Half-way up the stairs it stands, 
And points and beckons with its hands 
From its case of massive oak, 
Like a monk, who, under his cloak, 



THE ARROW AND THE SONG.— DANTE. 



Crosses himself, and sighs, alas ! 


And in the hush that followed the prayer, 


With sorrowful voice to all who pass, — 


Was heard the old clock on the stair, — 


" Forever — never ! 


" Forever — never ! 


Never — forever ! " 


Never — forever ! " 


By day its voice is low and light ; 


All are scattered now and fled, 


But hi the silent dead of night, 


Some are married, some are dead ; 


Distinct as a passing footstep's fall, 


And when I ask, with throbs of pain, 


It echoes along the vacant hall, 


"Ah ! when shall they all meet again ?" 


Along the ceiling, along the floor, 


As in the days long since gone by, 


And seems to say, at each chamber-door, — 


The ancient timepiece makes reply, — 


"Forever — never ! 


i l Forever — never ! 


Never — forever ! ' ' 


Never — forever ! " 


Through days of sorrow and of mirth, 


Never here, forever there, 


Through days of death and days of birth, 


Where all parting, pain, and care, 


Through every swift vicissitude 


And death, and time shall disappear, — 


Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood, 


Forever there, but never here ! 


And as if, like God, it all things saw, 


The horologe of Eternity 


It calmly repeats those words of awe, — 


Sayeth this incessantly, — 


"Forever- never ! 


' ' Forever — never ! 


Never — forever ! " 


Never — forever ! " 


In that mansion used to be 




Free-hearted Hospitality ; 




His great fires up the chimney roared ; 






The stranger feasted at his board ; 




But, like the skeleton at the feast, 




That warning timepiece never ceased, — 




"Forever — never ! 


THE ARROW AND THE SONG. 


Never — forever ! " 






I shot an arrow into the air, 


There groups of merry children played, 


It fell to earth, I knew not where ; 


There youths and maidens dreaming strayed ; 


For, so swiftly it flew, the sight 


O precious hours ! golden prime, 


Could not follow it in its flight. 


And affluence of love and time ! 




Even as a miser counts his gold, 


I breathed a song into the air, 


Those hours the ancient timepiece told, — 


It fell to earth, I knew not where ; 


" Forever — never ! 


For who has sight so keen and strong, 


Never — forever ! " 


That it can follow the flight of song ? 


From that chamber, clothed in white, 


Long, long afterward, in an oak 


The bride came forth on her wedding night ; 


I found the arrow, still unbroke ; 


There, in that silent room below, 


And the song, from beginning to end, 


The dead lay in his shroud of snow ; 


I found again in the heart of a friend. 



SOKNETS. 



THE EVENING STAR. 

Lo ! in the painted oriel of the West, 
Whose panes the sunken sun incarnadines, 
Like a fair lady at her casement, shines 
The evening star, the star of love and rest ! 

And then anon she doth herself divest 
Of all her radiant garments, and reclines 
Behind the sombre screen of yonder pines, 
With slumber and soft dreams of love oppressed. 

O my beloved, my sweet Hesperus ! 
My morning arid my evening star of love ! 
My best and gentlest lady ! even thus, 

As that fair planet in the sky above, 
Dost thou retire unto thy rest at night, 
And from thy darkened window fades the light. 



AUTUMN. 

Thotj comest, Autumn, heralded by the rain, 
With banners, by great gales incessant fanned, 
Brighter than brightest silks of Samarcand, 
And stately oxen harnessed to thy wain ! 



Thou standest, like imperial Charlemagne, 
Upon thy bridge of gold ; thy royal hand 
Outstretched with benedictions o'er the land, 
Blessing the farms through all thy vast do- 
main ! 
Thy shield is the red harvest moon, suspended 
So long beneath the heaven's o'erhanging 

eaves ; 
Thy steps are by the farmer's prayers attend- 
ed; 
Like flames upon an altar shine the sheaves ; 
And, following thee, in thy ovation splendid, 
Thine almoner, the wind, scatters the golden 
leaves ! 



DANTE. 

Tuscan, that wanderest through the realms of 
gloom, 
With thoughtful pace, and sad, majestic eyes, 
Stern thoughts and awful from thy soul arise, 
Like Farinata from his fiery tomb. 

Thy sacred song is like the trump of doom ; 



THE HEMLOCK TREE 



7a 



Yet in thy heart what human sympathies, 
What soft compassion glows, as in the skies 
The tender stars their clouded lamps relume ! 
Methinks I see thee stand, with pallid cheeks, 
By Fra Hilario in his diocese, 



As up the convent-walls, in golden streaks, 
The ascending sunbeams mark the day's decrease ; 
And, as he asks what there the stranger seeks, 
Thy voice along the cloister whispers, 
"Peace ! " 



TRANSLATIONS. 




O hemlock tree ! how faithful are thv branches. 



THE HEMLOCK TREE. O maiden fair ! O maiden fair ! how faithless is 

thy bosom ! 
FROM the GERMAN. To love me in prosperity. 

And leave me in adversity ! 
O hemlock tree ! O hemlock tree ! how faithful O maiden fair ! O maiden fair ! how faithless is 
are thy branches ! thy bosom ! 

Green not alone in summer time, 
But in the winter's frost and rime ! 
hemlock tree ! O hemlock tree ! how faithful l The nightingale, the nightingale, thou tak' st f 01 
are thy branches ! thine example ! 



76 



ANNIE OF THARAW.— THE SEA HATH ITS PEARLS. 



So long as summer laughs she sings, 
But in the autumn spreads her wings. 
The nightingale, the nightingale, thou tak'st for 
thine example ! 

The meadow brook, the meadow brook, is mirror 
of thy falsehood ! 
It flows so long as falls the rain, 
In drought its springs soon dry again. 
The meadow brook, the meadow brook, is mirror 
of thy falsehood ! 



ANNIE OF THARAW. 

FROM THE LOW GERMAN OF SIMON DACH. 

Annie of Tharaw, my true love of old, 
She is my life, and my goods, and my gold. 

Annie of Tharaw, her heart once again 
To me has surrendered in joy and in pain. 

Annie of Tharaw, my riches, my good, 
Thou, O my soul, my flesh, and my blood ! 

Then come the wild weather, come sleet or come 

snow, 
We will stand by each other, however it blow 

Oppression, and sickness, and sorrow, and pain 
Shall be to our true love as links to the chain. 

As the palm-tree standeth so straight and so tall, 
The more the hail beats, and the more the rains 
fall,— 

So love in our hearts shall grow mighty and 
strong, 

Through crosses, through sorrows, through man- 
ifold wrong. 

Shouldst thou be torn from me to wander alone 
In a desolate land where the sun is scarce 
known, — 

Through forests I'll follow, and where the sea 

flows, 
Through ice, and through iron, through armies 

of foes. 

Annie of Tharaw, my light and my sun, 

The threads of our two lives are woven in one. 

Whate'er I have bidden thee thou hast obeyed, 
Whatever forbidden thou hast not gainsaid. 

How in the turmoil of life can love stand, 
Where there is not one heart, and one mouth, 
and one hand ? 

Some seek for dissension, and trouble, and strife ; 
Like a dog and a cat live such man and wife. 

Annie of Tharaw, such is not our love ; 

Thou art my lambkin, my chick, and my dove. 

Whate'er my desire is, in thine may be seen ; 
1 am king of the household, and thou art its 
queen. 

It is this, O my Annie, my heart's sweetest rest, 
That makes of us twain but one soul in one breast. 

This turns to a heaven the hut where we dwell ; 
While wrangling soon changes a home to a hell. 



THE STATUE OVER THE CATHEDRAL 
DOOR. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF JULIUS MOSEN. 

Forms of saints and kings are standing 

The cathedral door above ; 
Yet I saw but one among them 

Who hath soothed my soul with love. 

In his mantle, — wound about him, 

As their robes the sowers wind, — 
Bore he swallows and their fledglings, 

Flowers and weeds of every kind. 

And so stands he calm and childlike, 

High in wind and tempest wild ; 
O, were I like him exalted, 

I would be like him, a child ! 

And my songs, — green leaves and blossoms, — 
To the doors of heaven would bear, 

Calling even in storm and tempest, 
Round me still these birds of air. 



THE LEGEND OF THE CROSSBILL. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF JULIUS MOSEN. 

On the cross the dying Saviour 
Heavenward lifts his eyelids calm, 

Feels, but scarcely feels, a trembling 
In his pierced and bleeding palm. 

And by all the world forsaken, 
Sees he how with zealous care 

At the ruthless nail of iron 
A little bird is striving there. 

Stained with blcod and never tiring, 
With its beak it doth not cease, 

From the cross 't would free the Saviour, 
Its Creator's Son release. 

And the Saviour speaks in mildness : 
"Blest be thou of all the good ! 

Bear, as token of this moment, 
Marks of blood and holy rood ! " 

And that bird is called the crossbill ; 

Covered all with blood so clear, 
In the groves of pine it singeth 

Songs, like legends, strange to hear. 



THE SEA HATH ITS PEARLS. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF HEINRICH HEINE. 

The sea hath its pearls, 

The heaven hath its stars ; 
But my heart, my heart, 

My heart hath its love. 

Great are the sea and the heaven ; 

Yet greater is my heart, 
And fairer than pearls and stars 

Flashes and beams my love. 

Thou little, youthful maiden, 

Come unto my great heart ; 
My heart, and the sea, and the heaven 

Are melting away with love ! 



POETIC APHORISMS.— CURFEW. 



77 



POETIC APHORISMS. 

FROM THE SINNGEPICHTE OF FRIEDRICH VON 
LOGAU. 

SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. 
MONEY. 

Wiiereunto is money good ? 
Who has it not wants hardihood, 
Who has it has much trouble and care, 
Who once has had it has despair. 

THE BEST MEDICINE. 

Joy and Temperance and Repose 
Slam the door on the doctor's nose. 

SIN. 

Man-like is it to fall into sin, 
Fiend-like is it to dwell therein, 
Christ-like is it for sin to grieve, 
God-like is it all sin to leave. 

POVERTY AND BLINDNESS. 

A BLIND man is a poor man, and blind a poor 

man is ; 
For the former seeth no man, and the latter no 

man sees. 

LAW OF LIFE. 

Live I, so live I, 
To my Lord heartily, 
To my Prince faithfully, 
To my Neighbor honestly. 
Die I, so die I. 

CREEDS. 

Lutheran, Popish, Calvinistic, all these creeds 
and doctrines three 



THE RESTLESS HEART. 

A millstone and the human heart are driven 

ever round ; 
If they have nothing else to grind, they must 

themselves be ground. 

CHRISTIAN LOVE. 

Whilom Love was like a fire, and warmth and 

comfort it bespoke ; 
But, alas ! it now is quenched, and only bites us, 

like the smoke. 



ART AND TACT. 

Intelligence and courtesy not always are com- 
bined ; 
Often in a wooden house a golden room we find. 

RETRIBUTION. 

Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they 
grind exceeding small ; 

Though with patience he stands waiting, with ex- 
actness grinds he all. 

TRUTH. 

When by night the frogs are croaking, kindle but 

a torch's fire. 
Ha ! how soon they all are silent ! Thus Truth 

silences the liar. 



RHYMES. 

If perhaps these rhymes of mine should sound 
not well in strangers' ears. 

They have only to bethink them that it happens 
so with theirs ; 

For so long as words, like mortals, call a father- 
land their own, 



Extant are ; but still the doubt is, where Christi- ' They .will be most highly valued where they are 
anity may be. best and longest known. 



CUEFEW. 



ii. 



Solemnly, mournfully, 

Dealing its dole, 
The Curfew Bell 

Is beginning to toll. 

Cover the embers, 

And put out the light ; 

Toil comes with the morning, 
And rest with the night. 

Dark grow the windows, 
And quenched is the fire ; 

Sound fades into silence, — 
All footsteps retire. 

No voice in the chambers, 
No sound in the hall -' 

Sleep and oblivion 
Reign over all ! 



The book is completed, 
And closed, like the day ; 

And the hand that has written it 
Lays it away. 

Dim grow its fancies ; 

Forgotten they lie; 
Like coals in the ashes, 

They darken and die. 

Song sinks into silence, 

The story is told, 
The windows are darkened, 

The hearth-stone is cold. 

Darker and darker 

The black shadows fall ; 

Sleep and oblivion 
Reign over all. 



78 



EVANGELINE. 



EVANGELINE. 

A TALE OF ACADIE. 



ImbM 




She bore to the reapers at noontide flagons of home-brewed ale. 



This is the forest primeval. The murmuring 
pines and the hemlocks, 

Bearded with moss, and in garments green, in- 
distinct in the twilight, 

Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and 
prophetic, 

Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on 
their bosoms. 

Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced 
neighboring ocean 

Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the 
wail of the forest. 



This is the forest primeval ; but where are the 
hearts that beneath it 

Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the wood- 
land the voice of the huntsman ? 

Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of 
Acadian farmers, — 



I Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water 

I the woodlands, 

i Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an 

image of heaven ? 
i Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers 

forever departed ! 
J Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty 

blasts of October 
[ Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle 

them far o'er the ocean. 
Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful 

village of Grand-Pr3. 

Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and en- 
dures, and is patient, 

Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of 
woman's devotion, 

List to the mournful tradition still sung by the 
pines of the forest ; 

List to a Tale of Love in Acadie,home of the happy. 



EVANGELINE. 



70 



PART THE FIRST. 



In the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin 
of Minas, 

Distant, secluded, still, the little village of 
Grand-Pre 

Lay in the fruitful valley. Vast meadows 
stretched to the eastward, 

Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks 
without number. 

Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised 
with labor incessant, 

Shut out the turbulent tides ; but at stated sea- 
sons the flood-gates 

Opened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will 
o'er the meadows. 

West and south there were fields of flax, and or- 
chards and cornfields 

Spreading afar and unfenced o'er the plain ; and 
away to the northward 

Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on 
the mountains 

Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the 
mighty Atlantic 

Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their 
station descended 

There, in the midst of its farms, reposed the 
Acadian village. 

Strongly built were the houses, with frames of 
oak and of hemlock, 

Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the 
reign of the Henries. 

Thatched were the roofs, with dormer-windows ; 
and gables projecting 

Over the basement below protected and shaded 
the doorway. 

There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when 
brightly the sunset 

Lighted the village street, and gilded the vanes 
on the chimneys, 

Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps and 
in kirtles 

Scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning 
the golden 

Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shut- 
tles' within doors 

Mingled their sound with the whir of the wheels 
and the songs of the maidens. 

Solemnly down the street came the parish priest, 
and the children 

Paused in their play to kiss the hand he extend- 
ed to bless them. 

Reverend walked he among them ; and up rose 
matrons and maidens, 

Hailing his slow approach with words of affec- 
tionate welcome. 

Then came the laborers home from the field, and 
serenely the sun sank 

Down to his rest, and twilight prevailed. Anon 
from the belfry 
• Softly the Angelus sounded, and over the roofs 
of the village 

Columns of pale blue smoke, like clouds of in- 
cense ascending, 

Rose from a hundred hearths, the homes of peace 
and contentment. 

Thus dwelt together in love these simple Acadian 
farmers, — 

Dwelt in the love of God and of man. Alike 
were they free from 

Fear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the 
/. vice of republics. 

,Neither locks had they to their doors, nor bars to 

V- ,^_ their windows ; 

But their dwellings were open as day and the 
hearts of the owners ; 

There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived 
in abundance. 



Somewhat apart from the village, and nearer 
the Basin of Minas, 
Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer of 

Grand-Pre, 
Dwelt on his goodly acres ; and with him, direct- 
ing his household, 
{ Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and the pride 

of the village. 
j Stalworth and stately in form was the man of 

seventy winters ; 
i Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered 
with snow-flakes 



'White as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks 

as brown as the oak-leaves. 
Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen 

summers. 
! Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on 

the thorn by the way-side, 
i Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the 

brown shade of her tresses ! 
: Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that 

feed in the meadows, 
When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers 

at noontide 
Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah ! fair in sooth was 

the maiden. 
Fairer was she when, on sunday morn, while the 

bell from its turret 
Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest 

with his hyssop 
Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings 

upon them, 
Down the long street she passed, with her chap- 
let of beads and her missal, 
Wearing her Norman cap, and her kirtle of blue, 

and the ear-rings, 
Brought in the olden time from France, and since, 

as an heirloom, 
Handed down from mother to child, through long 

generations. 
But a celestial brightness — a more ethereal 

beauty — 
Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, 

after confession, 
Homeward serenely she walked with God's bene- 
diction upon her. 
When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing 

of exquisite music. 

Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house 

of the farmer 
Stood on the side of a hill commanding the sea ; 

and a shady 
Sycamore grew by the door, with a woodbine 

wreathing around it. 
Rudely carved was the porch, with seats beneath ; 

and a footpath 
Led through an orchard wide, and disappeared 

in the meadow. 
Under the sycamore-tree were hives overhung by 

a penthouse. 
Such as the traveller sees in regions remote by 

the roadside, 
Built o'er a box for the poor, or the blessed image 

of Mary. 
Farther down, on the slope of the hill, was the well 

with its moss-grown 
Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough 

for the horses. 
Shielding the house from storms, on the north, 

were the barns and the f ram-yard, 
There stood the broad-wheeled wains and the an- 
tique ploughs and the harrows ; 
There were the folds for the sheep ; and there, in 

his feathered seraglio, 
Strutted the lordly turkey, and crowed the cock, 

with the self-same 
Voice that in ages of old had startled the peni- 
tent Peter. 
Bursting with hay were the barns, themselves a 

village. In each one 



\ 



so 



EVANGELINE. 



Far o'er the gable projected a roof of thatch ; and 
a staircase, 

Under the sheltering eaves, led up to the odorous 
corn-loft. 

There too the dove-cot stood, with its meek and 
innocent inmates 

Murmuring ever of love ; while above in the vari- 
ant breezes 

Numberless noisy weathercocks rattled and sang 
of mutation. 

Thus, at peace with God and the world, the 
farmer of Grand Pre 



Gabriel Lajeunesse,the son of Basil the blacksmith, 

Who was a mighty man in the village, and hon- 
ored of all men ; 

For, since the birth of time, throughout all ages 
and nations, 

Has the craft of the smith been held in repute by 
the people. 

Basil was Benedict's friend. Their children from 
earliest childhood 

Grew up together as brother and sister ; and Fa- 
ther Felician, 

Priest and pedagogue both in the village, had 
taught them their letters 




Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house of the farmer. 



Lived on his sunny farm, and Evangeline gov- 
erned his household. 

Many a youth, as he knelt in the church and 
opened his missal, 

Fixed his eyes upon her as the saint of his deep- 
est devotion ; 

Happy was he who might touch her hand or the 
hem of her garment ! 

Many a suitor came to her door, by the darkness 
befriended, 

And, as he knocked and waited to hear the sound 
of her footsteps, 

Knew not which beat the louder, his heart or the 
knocker of iron ; 

Or at the joyous feast of the Patron Saint of the 
village, 

Bolder grew, and pressed her hand in the dance 
as he whispered 

Hurried words of love, that seemed a part of the 
music. 

Bat, among all who came, young Gabriel only was 
welcome ; 



Out of the self-same book, with the hymns of the 
church and the plain-song. 

But when the hymn was sung, and the daily 
lesson completed, 

Swiftly they hurried away to the forge of Basil 
the blacksmith. 

There at the door they stood, with wondering eyes 
to behold him 

Take in his leathern lap the hoof of the horse as a 
plaything, 

Nailing the shoe in its place ; while near him the 
tire of the cart-wheel 

Lay like a fiery snake, coiled round in a circle of 
cinders. 

Oft on autumnal eves, when without in the gath- 
ering darkness 

Bursting with light seemed the smithy, through 
every cranny and crevice, 

Warm by the forge within they watched the la- 
boring bellows, 

And as its panting ceased, and the sparks expired 
in the ashes, 



EVANGELINE. 



h: 



Merrily laughed, and said they were nuns going 

into the chapel. 
Oft on sledges in winter, as swift as the swoop of 

the eagle, 
Down the hillside bounding, they glided away o'er 

the meadow. 
Oft in the barns they climbed to the populous 

nests on the ratters, 
Seeking with eager eyes that wondrous stone, 

which the swallow 
Brings from the shore of the sea to restore the 

sight of its fledglings ; 
Lucky was he who found that stone in the nest of 

" the swallow ! 
Thus passed a few swift years, and they no longer 

were children. 
He was a valiant youth, and his face, like the 

face of the morning, 
Gladdened the earth with its light, and ripened 

thought into action. 
She was a woman now, with the heart and hopes 

of a woman. 
" Sunshine of Saint Eulalie " was she called ; for 

that was the sunshine 
Which, as the farmers believed, would load their 

orchards with apples ; 
She, too, would bring to her husband's house de- 
light and abundance, 
Filling it full of love and the ruddy faces of chil- 
dren. 

II. 

Now had the season returned, when the nights 
grow colder and longer, 

And the repeating sun thj sign of the Scorpion 
enters. 

Birds of passage sailed through the leaden air from 
the ice-bound, 

Desolate northern bays to the shores of tropical 
islands. 

Harvests were gathered in ; and wild with the 
winds of September 

Wrestled the trees of the forest, as Jacob of old 
with the angel. 

All the signs foretold a winter long and inclement. 

Bees, with prophetic instinct of want, had hoard- 
ed their honey 

Till the hives overflowed ; and the Indian hunt- 
ers asserted 

Cold would the winter be, for thick was the fur 
of the foxes. 

Such was the advent of autumn. Then followed 
that beautiful season, 

Called by the pious Acadian peasants the Summer 
of All-Saints ! 

Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical 
light ; and the landscape 

Lay as if new created in all the freshness of child- 
hood. 

Peace seemed to reign upon earth, and the rest- 
less heart of the ocean 

Was for a moment consoled. All sounds were in 
harmony blended. 

Voices of children at play, the crowing of cocks 
in the farm-yards, 

Whir of wings in the drowsy air, and the cooing 
of pigeons, 

All were subdued and low as the murmurs of love, 
and the great sun 

Looked with the eye of love through the golden 
vapors around him ; 

While arrayed in its robes of russet and scarlet 
and yellow, 

Bright with the sheen of the dew, each glittering 
tree of the forest 

Flashed like the plane-tree the Persian adorned 
with mantles and jewels. 

Now recommenced the reign of rest and affec- 
tion and stillness. 



Day with its burden and heat had departed, and 

twilight descending 
Brought back the evening star to the sky, and the 

herds to the homestead. 
Pawing the ground they came, and resting their 

necks on each other, 
And with their nostrils distended inhaling the 

freshness of evening. 
Foremost bearing the bell, Evangeline's beautiful 

heifer, 
Proud of her snow-white hide, and the ribbon that 

waved from her collar, 
Quietly paced and slow, as if conscious of human 

affection. 
Then came the shepherd back with his bleating 

flocks from the seaside, 
Where was their favorite pasture. Behind them 

followed the watch-dog, 
Patient, full of importance, and grand in the pride 

of his instinct, 
Walking from side to side with a lordly air, and 

superbly 
Waving his bushy tail, and urging forward the 

stragglers ; 
Regent of flocks was he when the shepherd slept ; 

their protector, 
When from the forest at night, through the starry 

silence, the wolves howled. 
Late, with the rising moon, returned the wains 

from the marshes, 
Laden with briny hay, that filled the air with its 

odor. 
Cheerily neighed the steeds, with dew on their 

manes and their fetlocks, 
While aloft on their shoulders the wooden and 

ponderous saddles, 
Painted with brilliant dyes, and adorned with tas- 
sels of crimson^ 
Xodded in bright array, like hollyhocks heavy 

with blossoms. 
Patiently stood the cows meanwhile, and yielded 

their udders 
Unto the milkmaid's hand; whilst loud and in 

regular cadence 
Into the sounding pails the foaming streamlets 

descended. 
Lowing of cattle and peals of laughter were heard 

in the farm-yard, 
Echoed back by the barns. Anon they sank into 

stillness ; 
Heavily closed, with a jarring sound, the valves 

of the barn-doors, 

fflattled the wooden bars, and all for a season was 
V silent. .£. , 

In-doors, warm by the wide-mouthed fire-place, 

idly the farmer 
Sat in his elbow-chair, and watched how the 

flames and the smoke-wreaths 
Struggled together like foes in a burning city. 

Behind him, 
Nodding and mocking along the wall, with ges- 
tures fantastic, 
Darted his own huge shadow, and vanished away 

into darkness. 
Faces, clumsily carved in oak, on the back of his 

arm-chair 
Laughed in the flickering light, and the pewter 

plates on the dresser 
Caught and reflected the flame, as shields of 

armies the sunshine. 
Fragments of song the old man sang, and carols 

of Christmas, 
Such as at home, in the olden time, his fathers 

before him 
Sang in their Norman orchards and bright Bur- 

gundian vineyards. 
Close at her father's side was the gentle Evan- 
geline seated, 
Spinning flax for the loom, that stood in the 

corner behind her. 



4 



s* 



82 



EVANGELINE. 



Silent awhile were its treadles, at rest was its 
diligent shuttle, 

While the monotonous drone of the wheel, like 
the drone of a bagpipe, 

Followed the old man's song, and united the 
fragments together. 

As in a church, when the chant of the choir at 
intervals ceases, 

Footfalls are heard in the aisles, or words of the 
priest at the altar, 

So, in each pause of the song, with measured mo- 
tion the clock clicked. 

Thus as they sat, there were footsteps heard, 

and, suddenly lifted, 
Sounded the wooden latch, and the door swung 

back on its hinges. 
Benedict knew by the hob-nailed shoes it was 

Basil the blacksmith, 
And by her beating heart Evangeline knew who 

was with him. 
"Welcome!" the farmer exclaimed, as their 
*"N footsteps paused on the threshold, 
' ' Welcome, Basil, my friend ! Come, take thy 

place on the settle 
Close by the chimney-side, which is always 

empty without thee ; 
Take from the shelf overhead thy pipe and the 

box of tobacco ; 
Never so much thyself art thou as when through 

the curling 
Smoke of the pipe or the forge thy friendly and 

jovial face gleams 
Round and red as the harvest moon through the 

mist of the marshes/y 
Then, with a smile of content, thus answered 

Basil the blacksmith, 
Taking with easy air the accustomed seat by the 

fireside : — 
" Benedict Belief on taine, thou hast ever thy jest 

and thy ballad ! 
Ever in cheerf ullest mood art thou, when others 

are filled with 
Gloomy forebodings of ill, and see only ruin be- 
fore them. 
Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked 

up a horseshoe." 
Pausing a moment, to take the pipe that Evan- 
geline brought him, 
And with a coal from the embers had lighted, he 

slowly continued : — 
"Four days now are passed since the English 

ships at their anchors 
Ride in the Gaspereau's mouth, with their can- 
non pointed against us. 
What their design may be is unknown ; but all 

are commanded 
On the morrow to meet in the church, where his 

Majesty's mandate 
Will be proclaimed as law in the land. Alas ! in 

the mean time 
Many surmises of evil alarm the hearts of the 

people." 
Then made answer the farmer : — " Perhaps some 

friendlier purpose 
Brings these ships to our shores. Perhaps the 

harvests in England 
By untimely rains or untimelier heat have been 

blighted, 
And from our bursting barns they would feed 

their cattle and children." 
" Not so thinketh the folk in the village," said, 

warmly, the blacksmith, 
Shaking his head, as in doubt ; then, heaving a 

sigh, he continued : — 
"Louisburg is not forgotten, nor Beau Sejour, 

nor Port Royal. 
Many already have fled to the forest, and lurk on 

its outskirts, 
Waiting with anxious hearts the dubious fate of 

to-morrow. 



Arms have been taken from us, and warlike 

weapons of all kinds ; 
Nothing is left but the blacksmith's sledge and 

the scythe of the mower." 
Then with a pleasant smile made answer the 

jovial farmer : — 
" Safer are we unarmed, in the midst of our flocks 

and our cornfields, 
Safer within these peaceful dikes, besieged by the 

ocean, 
Than our fathers in forts, besieged by the ene- 
my's cannon. 
Fear no evil, my friend, and to-night may no 

shadow of sorrow 
Fall on this house and hearth ; for this is the 

night of the contract. 
Built are the house and the barn. The merry 

lads of the village 
Strongly have built them and well ; and, breaking 

the glebe round about them, 
Filled the barn with hay, and the house with 

food for a twelvemonth. 
Rene Leblanc will be here anon, with his papers 

and inkhorn. 
Shall we not then he glad, and rejoice in the joy 

of our children ? " 
As apart by the window she stood, with her 

hand in her lover's, 
Blushing Evangeline heard the words that her 

father had spoken, 
And, as they died on his lips, the worthy notary 

entered. 



III. 



Bent like a laboring oar, that toils in the surf 

of the ocean, 
Bent, but not broken, by age was the form of the 

notary public ; 
Shocks of yellow hair, like the silken floss of the 

maize, hung 
Over his shoulders ; his forehead was high ; and 

glasses with horn bows 
Sat astride on his nose, with a look of wisdom 

supernal. 
Father of twenty children was he, and more than 

a hundred 
Children's children rode on his knee, and heard 

his great watch tick. 
Four long years in the times of the war had he 

languished a captive, 
Suffering much in an old French fort as the 

friend of the English. 
Now, though warier grown, without all guile or 

suspicion, 
Ripe in wisdom was he, but patient, and simple, 

and childlike. 
He was beloved by all, and most of all by the 

children ; 
For he told them tales of the Loup-garou in the 

forest, 
And of the goblin that came in the night to 

water the horses, 
And of the white LHiche, the gost of a child who 

unchristened 
Died, and was doomed to haunt unseen the cham- 
bers of children ; 
And how on Christmas eve the oxen talked in the 

stable, 
And how the fever was cured by a spider shut up 

in a nutshell, 
And of the marvellous powers of four-leaved 

clover and horseshoes, 
With whatsoever else was writ in the lore of the 

village. 
Then up rose from his seat by the fireside Basil 

the blacksmith, 
Knocked from his pipe the ashes, and slowly ex- 
tending his right hand, 
"Father Leblanc," he exclaimed, " thou hast 

heard the talk in the village, 



EVANGELINE. 



83 



And, perchance, canst tell us some news of these 

ships and their errand." 
Then with modest demeanor made answer the 

notary public, — 
" Gossip enough have 1 heard, in sooth, yet am 

never the wiser ; 
And what tbeir errand may be I know not better 

than others. 
Yet am I not of those who imagine some evil in- 
tention 
Brings them here, for^we are at peace ; and why 

than molest us Jp' 
"God's name!" shouted the hasty and some- 
what irascible blacksmith ; 
" Must we in all things look for the how, and the 

why, and the wherefore ? 
Daily injustice is done, and might is the right of 

the strongest ! " 
But, without heeding his warmth, continued the 

notary public, — 
"Man is unjust, but God is just; and finally 

justice 
Triumphs ; and well I remember a story, that 

often consoled me, 
When as a captive I lay in the old French fort at 

Port Royal. ' ' 
This was the old man's favorite tale, and he loved 

to repeat it 
When his neighbors complained that any injustice 

was done them. 
" Once in an ancient city, whose name I no longer 

remember, 
Raised aloft on a column, a brazen statue of Jus- 
tice 
Stood in the public square, upholding the scales 

in its left hand, 
And in its right a sword, as an emblem that jus- 
tice presided 
Over the laws of the land, and the hearts and 

homes of the people. 
Even the birds had built their nests in the scales 

of the balance, 
Having no fear of the sword that flashed in the 

sunshine above them. 
But in the course of time the laws of the land 

were corrupted ; 
Might took the place of right, and the weak were 

oppressed, and the mighty 
Ruled with an iron rod. Then it chanced in a | 

nobleman's palace 
That a necklace of pearls was lost, and erelong a 

suspicion 
Fell on an orphan girl who lived as maid in the 

household. 
She, after form of trial condemned to die on the I 

scaffold, 
Patiently met her doom at the foot of the statue 

of Justice. 
As to her Father in heaven her innocent spirit 

ascended, 
Lo ! o'er the city a tempest rose ; and the bolts 

of the thunder 
Smote the statue of bronze, and hurled in wrath 

from its left hand 
Down on the pavement below the clattering scales 

of the balance, 
And in the hollow thereof was found the nest of i 

a magpie, 
Into whose clay -built walls the necklace of pearls 

was inwoven." 
Silenced, but not convinced, when the story was 

ended, the blacksmith 
Stood like a man who fain would speak, but find- 

eth no language ; 
All his thoughts were congealed into lines on his 

face, as the vapors 
Freeze in fantastic shapes on the window-panes 

in the winter. 

Then Evangeline lighted the brazen lamp on the 
table, 



Filled, till it overflowed, the pewtsr tankard with 

home-brewed 
Nut-brown ale, that was famed for its strength in 

the village of Grand-Pr j ; 
While from his pocket the notary drew his papers 

and inkhorn, 
Wrote with a steady hand the date and the age 

of the parties, 
Naming the dower of the bride in flocks of sheep 

and in cattle. 
Orderly all things proceeded, and duly and well 

were completed, 
And the great seal of the law was set like a sun 

on the margin . 
Then from his leathern pouch the farmer threw 

on the table 
Three times the old man's fee in solid pieces of 

silver ; 
And the notary rising, and blessing the bride and 

the bridegroom, 
Lifted aloft the tankard of ale and drank to their 

welfare. 
Wiping the foam from his lip, he solemnly bowed 

and departed, 
While in silence the others sat and mused by the 

fireside, 
Till Evangeline brought the draught-board out of 

its corner. 
Soon was the game begun. In friendly conten- 
tion the old men 
Laughed at each lucky hit, or unsuccessful man- 
oeuvre, 
Laughed when a man was crowned, or a breach 

was made in the king-row. 
Meanwhile apart, in the twilight gloom of a win- 
dow's embrasure, 
Sat the lovers, and whispered together, beholding 

the moon rise 
Over the pallid sea and the silvery mist of the 

meadows. 
Silently one by one, in the infinite meadows of 

heaven, 
Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of 

the angels. 

Thus was the evening passed. Anon the bell 

from the belfry 
Rang out the hour of nine, the village curfew, 

and straight way 
Rose the guests and departed ; and silence reigned 

in the household. 
Many a farewell word and sweet good-night on 

the door-step 
Lingered long in Evangeline's heart, and filled it 

with gladness. 
Carefully then were covered the embers that 

glowed on the hearth-stone, 
And on the oaken stairs resounded the tread of 

the farmer. 
Soon with a soundless step the foot of Evangeline 

followed. 
Up the staircase moved a luminous space in the 

darkness, 
Lighted less by the lamp than the shining face of 

the maiden. 
Silent she passed the hall, and entered the door of 

her chamber. 
Simple that chamber was, with its curtains of 

white, and its clothes-press 
Ample and high, on whose spaciuus shelves were 

carefully folded 
Linen and woollen stuffs, by the hand of Evan- 
geline woven, 
This was the precious dower she would bring to 

her husband in marriage, 
Better than flocks and herds, being proofs of her 

skill as a housewife. 
Soon she extinguished her lamp, for the mellow 

and radiant moonlight 
Streamed through the windows, and lighted the 

room, till the heart of the maiden 



84 



EVANGELINE. 



Swelled and obeyed its power, like the tremulous 
tides of the ocean. 

Ah ! she was fair, exceeding fair to behold, as she 
stood with 

Naked snow-white feet on the gleaming floor of 
her chamber ! 

Little she dreamed that below, among the trees 
of the orchard, 

Waited her lover and watched for the gleam of 
her lamp and her shadow. 

Yet were her thoughts of him, and at times a 
feeling of sadness 

Passed o'er her soul, as the sailing shade of clouds 
in the moonlight 

Flitted across the floor and darkened the room f or 
a moment. 

And, as she gazed from the window, she saw 
serenely the moon pass 

Forth from the folds of a cloud, and one star fol- 
low her footsteps, 

As out of Abraham's tent young Ishmael wan- 
dered with Hagar ! 



IV. 



Pleasantly rose next morn the sun on the vil- 
lage of Grand-Pre. 
Pleasantly gleamed in the soft, sweet air the 

Basin of Mmas, 
Where the ships, with their wavering shadows, 

were riding at anchor. 
Life had long been astir in the village, and clam- 
orous labor 
Knocked with its hundred hands at the golden 

gates of the morning. 
Now from the country around, from the farms 

and neighboring hamlets, 
Came in their holiday dresses the blithe Acadian 

peasants. 
Many a glad good-morrow and jocund laugh from 

the young folk 
Made the bright air brighter, as up from the nu- 
merous meadows, 
Where no path could be seen but the track of 

wheels in the greensward, 
Group after group appeared, and joined, or passed 

on the highway. 
Long ere noon, in the village all sounds of labor 

were silenced. 
Thronged were the streets with people ; and noisy 

groups at the house-doors 
Sat in the cheerful sun, and rejoiced and gossiped 

together. 
Every house was an inn, where all were welcomed 

and feasted ; 
For with this simple people, who lived like 

brothers together, 
All things were held in common, and what one 

had was another's. 
Yet under Benedict's roof hospitality seemed 

more abundant : 
For Evangeline stood among the guests of her 

father ; 
Bright was her face with smiles, and words of 

welcome and gladness 
Fell from her beautiful lips v and blessed the cup 

as she gave it. 

Under the open sky, in the odorous air of the 

orchard, 
Stript of its golden fruit, was spread the feast of 

betrothal. 
There in the shade of the porch were the priest 

and the notary seated ; 
There good Benedict sat, and sturdy Basil the 

blacksmith. 
Not far withdrawn from these, by the cider-press 

and the bee-hives, 
Michael the fiddler was placed, with the gayest 

of hearts and of waistcoats. 



Shadow and light from the leaves alternately 
played on his snow-white 

Hair, as it waved in the wind ; and the jolly face 
of the fiddler 

Glowed like a living coal when the ashes are 
blown from the embers. 

Gayly the old man sang to the vibrant sound of 
his fiddle, 

Tous les Bourgeois de Chartrcs, and Le Carillon 
de Dunkerque, 

And anon with his wooden shoes beat time to 
the music. 

Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of the dizzy- 
ing dances 

Under the orchard-trees and down the path to 
the meadows ; 

Old folk and young together, and children min- 
gled among them. 

Fairest of all the maids was Evangeline, Bene- 
dict's daughter ! 

Noblest of all the youths was Gabriel, son of the 
blacksmith ! 

So passed the morning away. And lo ! with a 

summons sonorous 
Sounded the bell from its tower, and over the 

meadows a drum beat. 
Thronged erelong was the church with men. 

Without, in the churchyard, 
Waited the women. They stood by the graves, 

and hung on the headstones 
Garlands of autumn-leaves and evergreens fresh 

from the forest. 
Then came the guard from the ships, and march- 
ing proudly among them 
Entered the sacred portal. With loud and disso- 
nant clangor 
Echoed the sound of their brazen drums from 

ceiling and casement, — 
Echoed a moment only, and slowly the ponderous 

portal 
Closed, and in silence the crowd awaited the will 

of the soldiers. 
Then uprose their commander, and spake from 

the steps of the altar, 
Holding aloft in his hands, with its seals, the 

royal commission. 
" You are convened this dajr," he said, u by his 

Majesty's orders. 
Clement and kind has he been ; but how you 

have answered his kindness, 
Let your own hearts reply ! To my natural make 

and my temper 
Painful the task is I do, which to you I know 

must be grievous. 
Yet must I bow and obey, and deliver the will of 

our monarch ; 
Namely, that all your lands, and dwellings, and 

cattle of all kinds 
Forfeited be to the crown ; and that you your- 
selves from this province 
i Be transported to other lands. God grant you 

may dwell there 
Ever as faithful subjects, a happy and peaceable 

people ! 
Prisoners now I declare you; for such is his 

Majesty's pleasure ! '-' 
j As, when the air is serene in the sultry solstice 

of summer, 
Suddenly gathers a storm, and the deadly sling 

of the hailstones 
1 Beats down the farmer's corn in the field arid 

shatters his windows, 
Hiding the sun, and strewing the ground with 

thatch from the house-roofs, 
Bellowing fly the heard s, and seek to break their 

enclosures ; 
So on the hearts of the people descended the 

words of the speaker. 
Silent a moment they stood in speechless wonder, 

and then rose 



EVANGELINE. 



85 



Louder and ever louder a wail of sorrow and 

anger, 
And, by one impulse moved, they madly rushed 

to the door-way. 
Vain was the hope of escape ; and cries and fierce 

imprecations 
Rang through the house of prayer; and high o'er 

the heads of the others 
Rose, with his arms uplifted, the figure of Basil 

the blacksmith, 
As, on a stormy sea, a spar is tossed by the 

billows. 
Flushed was his face and distorted with passion ; 
/"-* and wildly he shouted, — 
." Down with the tyrants of England! we never 

have sworn them allegiance ! 
Death to these foreign soldiers, .who seize on our 

homes and our harvests ! "J 
More he fain would have said, but the merciless 

hand of a soldier 
Smote him upon the mouth, and dragged him 

down to the pavement. 

In the midst of the strife and tumult of angry 

contention, 
Lo ! the door of the chancel opened, and Father 

Felician 
Entered, with serious mien, and ascended the 

steps of the altar. 
Raising his reverend hand, with a gesture he awed 

into silence 
All that clamorous throng ; and thus he spake to 

his people ; 
Deep were his tones and solemn ; in accents 

measured and mournful 
Spake he, as, after the tocsin's alarum, distinctly 

the clock strikes. 
"What is this that ye do, my children ? what 

madness has seized yon V 
Forty years of my life have I labored among you, 

and taught you, 
Not in word alone, but in deed, to love one 

another ! 
Is this the fruit of my toils, of my vigils and 

prayers and privations ? 
Have you so soon forgotten all lessons of love and 

forgiveness V 
This is tne house of the Prince of Peace, and 

would you profane it 
Thus with violent deeds and hearts overflowing 

with hatred ? 
Lo ! where the crucified Christ from his cross is 

gazing upon you ! 
See ! in those sorrowful eyes what meekness and 

holy compassion ! 
Hark ! how those lips still repeat the praver, ' O 

Father, forgive them ! ' 
Let us repeat that prayer in the hour when the 

wicked assail us, 
Let us repeat it now, and say, ' O Father, for- 
give them ! ' " 
Few were his words of rebuke, but deep in the 

hearts of his people 
Sank they, and sobs of contrition succeeded the 

passionate outbreak, 
While they repeated his prayer, and said, kt O 

Fath;r, forgive them ! " 

Then came the evening service. The tapers 

gleamed from the altar. 
Fervent and deep was the voice of the priest, and 

the people responded, 
Not with their lips alone, but their hearts; and 

the Ave Maria 
Sang they, and fell on their knees, and their 

souls, with devotion translated, 
Rose on the ardor of prayer, like Elijah ascending 

to heaven. 

Meanwhile had spread in the village the tidings 
of ill, and on all sides 



Wandered, wailing, from house to house the 
women and children. 

Long at her lather's door Evangeline stood, with 
her right hand 

Shielding her eyes from the level rays of the sun, 
that, descending. 

Lighted the village street with mysterious splen- 
dor, and roofed each 
1 Peasant's cottage with golden thatch, and era- 
blazoned its windows. 

Long within had been spread the snow-white 
cloth on the table ; 

There stood the wheaton loaf, and the honey fra- 
grant with wild-flowers ; 

There stood the tankard of ale, and the cheese 
fresh brought from the dairy ; 

And, at the head of the board, the great arm- 
chair of the farmer. 

Thus did Evangeline wait at her father's door, as 
the sunset 

Threw the long shadows of trees o'er the broad 
ambrosial meadows. 

Ah ! on her spirit within a deeper shadow had 
fallen, 

And from the fields of her soul a fragrance celes- 
tial ascended, — 

Charity, meekness, love, and hope, and forgive- 
ness, and patience ! 

Then, all-forgetful of self, she wandered into the 
village. 

Cheering with looks and words the mournful 
hearts of thr; women. 

As o'er the darkening fields with lingering steps 
they departed, 

Urged by their household cares, and the weary 
feet of their childn n. 

Down sank the great red sun, and in golden, glim- 
mering vapors 

Veiled the light of his face, like a Prophet de- 
scending from S-iiai. 

Sweetly over the village the bell of the Angelus 
sounded. 

Meanwhile, amid the gloom, by the church 

Evangeline lingered. 
All was silent within ; and in vain at the door 

and the windows 
Stood she, and listened and looked, till, overcome 

by emotion, 
" Gabriel ! " cried she aloud with tremulous 

voice; but no answer 
Came from the graves of the dead, nor the 

gloomier grave of the living. 
Slowly at length she returned to the tenantless 

house of her father. 
Smouldered the fire on the hearth, on the board 

wis the supper untasted, 
Empt}' and drear was each room, and haunted 

with phantoms of terror. 
Sadly echoed her step on the stair and the floor 

of her chamber. 
In the dead of the night she heard the disconso- 
late rain fall 
Loud on the withered leaves of the sycamore-tree 

by the window. 
; Keenly the lightning flashed ; and the voice of 

the echoing thunder 
Told her that God was in heaven, and governed 

the world he created ! 
Then she remembered the tale she had heard of 

the justice of Heaven ; 
Soothed was her troubled soul, and she peacefully 

slumbered till morning. 



Four times the sun had risen and set ; and now 

on the fifth day 
Cheerily called tne cock to the sleeping maids of 

the farm-house. 



86 



EVANGELINE. 



Soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent and mournful 

procession, 
Came from the neighboring hamlets and farms 

the Acadian women, 
Driving in ponderous wains their household 

goods to the sea-shore, 
Pausing and looking back to gaze once more on 

tneir dwellings, 
Ere the}' were shut from sight by the winding 

road and the woodland. 
Close at their sides their children ran, and urged 

on the oxen, 
While in their little hands they clasped some 

fragments of playthings. 



Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth they hurried ; 
and there on the sea-beach 
Piled in confusion day the household goods of the 
peasants. 



Even as pilgrims, who journey afar from their 

homes and their country, 
Sing as they go, and in singing forget they are 

weary and wayworn, 
"So with songs on their lips the Acadian peasants 

descended 
Down from the church to the shore, amid their 

wives and their daughters. 
Foremost the young men came ; and, raising 

together their voices, 
Sang with tremulous lips a chant of the Catholic 

Missions : — 
"Sacred heart of the Saviour ! O inexhaustible 

fountain ! 
Fill our hearts this day with strength and sub- 
mission and patience ! " 
Then the old men, as they marched, and the 

women that stood by the wayside 
Joined in the sacred psalm, and the birds in the 

sunshine above them 




r^z-^Kfe** 



Driving in ponderous wains their household goods. 



All day long between the shore and the ships did 

the boats ply ; 
All day long the wains came laboring down from 

the village. 
Late in the afternoon, when the sun was near to 

his setting, 
Echoed far o'er the fields came the roll of drums 

from the churchyard. 
Thither the women and children thronged. On a 

sudden the church-doors 
Opened, and forth came the guard, and marching 

in gloomy procession 
Followed the long-imprisoned, but patient, Aca- 
dian farmers. 



Mingled their notes therewith, like voices of 
spirits departed. 



Half-way down to the shore Evangeline waited 

in silence, 
Not overcome with grief, but strong in the hour 

of affliction, — 
Calmly and sadly she waited, until the procession 

approached her, 
And she beheld the face of Gabriel pale with 

emotion. 
Tears then filled her eyes, and, eagerly running 

to meet him, 



EVANGELINE. 



87 



Clasped she his hands, and laid her head on his 
shoulder, and whispered, — 

" Gabriel ! be of good cheer ! for if we love one 
another 

Nothing, in truth, can harm us, whatever mis- 
chances may happen ! " 

Smiling she spake these words ; then suddenly- 
paused, for her father 

Saw she slowly advancing. Alas ! how changed 
was his asoect ! 

Gone was the glow from his cheek, and the fire 
from his eye, and his footstep 

Heavier seemed with the weight of the heavy heart 
in his bosom. 

But with a smile and a sigh, she clasped his neck 
and embraced him, 

Speaking words of endearment where words of 
comfort availed not. 

Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth moved on that 
mournful procession. 

There disorder prevailed, and the tumult and 

stir of embarking. 
Busily plied the freighted boats ; and in the con- j 

fusion 
Wives were torn from their husbands, and 

mothers, too late, saw their children 
Left on the land, extending their arms, with 

wildest entreaties. 
So unto separate ships were Basil and Gabriel 

carried. 
While in despair on the shore Evangeline stood 

with her father. 
Half the task was not done when the sun went 

down, and the twilight 
Deepened and darkened around ; and in haste 

the refluent ocean 
Fled away from the shore, and left the line of the 

sand-beach 
Covered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and the 

slippery sea-weed. 
Farther back in the midst of the household goods 

and the wagons, 
Like to a gypsy camp, or a leaguer after a battle, 
All escape cut off by the sea, and the sentinels 

near them, 
Lay encamped for the night the houseless Aca- 
dian farmers. 
Back to its nethermost caves retreated the bellow- 
ing ocean, 
Dragging adown the beach the rattling pebbles, 

and leaving 
Inland and far up the shore the stranded boats of 

the sailors. 
Then, as the night descended, the herds returned 

from their pastures ; 
Sweet was the moist still air with the odor of 

milk from their udders ; 
Lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known 

bars of the farm-yard, — 
Waited and looked in vain for the voice and the 

hand of the milkmaid, 
Silence reigned in the streets ; from the church 

no Angelus sounded, 
Rose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no 

lights from the windows. 

But on the shores meanwhile the evening fires 

had been kindled, 
Built of the drift-wood thrown on the sands from 

wrecks in the tempest. 
Round them shapes of gloom and sorrowful faces 

were gathered. 
Voices of women were heard, and of men, and the 

crying of children. 
Onward from fire to fire, as from hearth to 

hearth in his parish, 
Wandered the faithful priest, consoling and bless- 
ing and cheering. 
Like unto shipwreck Paul on Melita's desolate 

sea-shore. 



Thus he approached the place where Evangeline 

sat with her father, 
And in the flickering light beheld the face of the 

old man, 
Haggard and hollow and wan, and without either 

thought or emotion, 
E'en as the face of a clock from which the hands 

have been taken. 
Vainly Evangeline strove with words and cares- 
ses to cheer him, 
Vainly offered him food ; yet he moved not, he 

looked not, he spake not, 
But, with a vacant stare, ever gazed at the flicker- 
ing firedight. 
" Benedicite ! " murmured the priest, in tones of 

compassion. 
More he fain would have said, but his heart was 

full, and his accents 
Faltered and paused on his lips, as the feet of a 

child on a threshold, 
Hushed by the scene he beholds, and the awful 

presence of sorrow. 
Silently, therefore, he laid his hand on the 

head of the maiden, 
Raising his tearful eyes to the silent stars that 

above them 
Moved on their way, unperturbed by the wrongs 

and sorrows of mortals. 
Then sat he down at her side, and they wept 

together in silence. 

Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in 

autumn the blood-red 
Moon climbs the crystal walls of heaven, and o'er 

the horizon ' 
Titan-like stretches its hundred hands upon 

mountain and meadow. 
Seizing the rocks and the rivers, and piling huge 

shadows together. 
Broader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs 

of the village, 
Gleamed on the sky and the sea, and the ships 

that lay in the roadstead. 
Columns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of 

flame were 
Thrust through their folds and withdrawn, like 

the quivering hands of a martyr. 
Then as the wind seized the gleeds and the burn- 
ing thatch, and, uplifting. 
Whirled them aloft through the air, at once from 

a hundred house-tops 
Started the sheeted smoke with flashes of flame 

intermingled. 
These things beheld in dismay the crowd on 

the shore and on shipboard. 
Speechless at first they stood, then cried aloud m 

their anguish, 
" We shall behold no more our homes in the vil- 
lage of Grand-Pre ! " 
Loud on a sudden the cocks began to crow in the 

farm-yards, 
Thinking the day had dawned ; and anon the 

lowing of cattle 
Came on the evening breeze, by the barking of 

dogs interrupted. 
Then rose a sound of dread, such as startles the 

sleeping encampments 
Far in the western prairies or forests that skirt 

the Nebraska, 
When the wild horses affrighted sweep by with 

the speed of the whirlwind. 
Or the loud bellowing herds of buffaloes rush to 

the river. 
Such was the sound that arose on the night, as 

the herds and the horses 
Broke through their folds and fences, and madly 

rushed o'er the meadows. 



Overwhelmed with the sight, yet speechless, 
the priest and the maiden 



88 



EVANGELINE. 



Gazed on the scene of terror that reddened and 

widened before them ; 
And as they turned at length to speak to their 

silent companion, 
Lo ! from his seat he had fallen, and stretched 

abroad on the sea-shore 
Motionless lay his form, from which the soul had 

departed. 
Slowly the priest uplifted the lifeless head, and 

the maiden 
Knelt at her father's side, and wailed aloud in 

her terror. 
Then in a swoon she sank, and lay with her head 

on his bosom. 
Through the long night she lay in deep, oblivious 

slumber ; 
And when she woke from the trance, she beheld 

a multitude near her. 
Faces of friends she beheld, that were mournfully 

gazing upon her, 
Pallid, with tearful eyes, and looks of saddest 

compassion. 
Still the blaze of the burning village illumined 

the landscape, 
Reddened the sky overhead, and gleamed on the 

faces aronnd her, 
And like the day of doom it semed to her waver- 
ing senses. 
Then a familiar voice she heard, as it said to the 

people, — 
" Let us bury him here by the sea. When a 

happier season 
Brings us again to our homes from the unknown 

land of our exile, 
Then shall his sacred dust be piously laid in the 

churchyard. " 
Such were the words of the priest. And there 

in haste by the sea-side, 
Having the glare of the burning village for 

funeral torches, 
But without bell or book, they burled the farmer 

of Grand-Pre. 
And as the voice of the priest repeated the ser- 
vice of sorrow, 
Lo ! with a mournful sound, like the voice of a 

vast congregation, 
Solemnly answered the sea, and mingled its roar 

with the dirges. 
'Twas the returning tide, that afar from the 

waste of the ocean, 
With the first dawn of the day, came heaving 

and hurrying landward. 
Then recommenced once more the stir and noise 

of embarking ; 
And with the ebb of the tide the ships sailed out 

of the harbor, 
Leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and 

the village in ruins. 



PART THE SECOND. 
I. 

Many a weary year had passed since the burning 

of Grand -Pre, 
When on the falling tide the freighted vessels 

departed, 
Bearing a nation, with all its household gods, 

into exile, 
Exile without an end, and without an example 

in story. 
Far asunder, on separate coasts, the Acadians 

landed ; 
Scattered were they, like flakes of snow, when 

the wind from the northeast 
Strikes aslant through the fogs that darken the 

Banks of Newfoundland. 
Friendless, homeless, hopeless, they wandered 

from city to city, 



From the cold lakes of the North to sultry South- 
ern savannas, — 
From the bleak shores of the sea to the lands 

where the Father of Waters 
Seizes the hills in his hands, and drags them 

down to the ocean, 
Deep in their sands to bury the scattered bones 

of the mammoth. 
Friends they sought and homes ; and many, de- 
spairing, heart-broken, 
Asked of the earth but a grave, and no longer a 

friend nor a fireside. 
Written their history stands on tablets of stone 

in the churchyards. 
Long among them was seen a maiden who waited 

and wandered, 
Lowly and meek in spirit, and patiently suffering 

all things. 
Fair was she and young ; but, alas ! before her 

extended, 
Dreary and vast and silent, the desert of life, 

with its pathway 
Marked by the graves of those who had sorrowed 

and suffered before her. 
Passions long extinguished, and hopes long dead 

and abandoned, 
As the emigrant's way o'er the Western desert 

is marked by 
Camp-fires long consumed, and bones that bleach 

in the sunshine. 
Something there was in her life incomplete, 

imperfect, unfinished; 
As if a morning of June, with all its music and 

sunshine, 
Suddenly paused in the sky, and, fading, slowly 

descended 
Into the east again, from whence it late had 

arisen. 
Sometimes she lingered in towns, till, urged by 

the fever within her, 
Urged by a restless longing, the hunger and 

thirst of the spirit, 
She would commence again her endless search 

and endeavor ; 
Sometimes in churchyards strayed, and gazed on 

the crosses and tombstones, 
Sat by some nameless grave, and thought that 

perhaps in its bosom 
He was already at rest, and she longed to slumber 

beside him. 
Sometimes a rumor, a hearsay, an inarticulate 

whisper, 
Came with its airy hand to point and beckon her 

forward. 
Sometimes she spake with those who had seen 

her beloved and known him, 
But it was long ago, in some far-off place or 

forgotten. 
" Gabriel Lajeunesse ! " they said ; " O yes ! we 

have seen him. 
He was with Basil the blacksmith, and both have 

gone to the prairies ; 
Coureurs-des-Bois are they, and famous hunters 

and trappers. " 
"Gabriel Lajeunesse!" said others; " O yes ! 

we have seen him. 
He is a Voyageur in the, lowlands of Louisiana." 
Then would they say,^ 1 Dear child ! why dream 

and wait for him longer ? 
Are there not other youths as fair as Gabriel V 

others 
Who have hearts as tender and true, and spirits 

as loyal "i 
Here is Baptiste Leblanc, the notary's son, who 

has loved thee 
Many a tedious year ; come, give him thy hand 

and be happy ! 
Thou art too fair to be left to braid St. Catherine's 

tresses.") 
Then would "Evangeline answer, serenely but 

sadly, ' ' I cannot ! 



EVANGELINE. 



Whither my heart has gone, there follows my 

hand, and not elsewhere. 
For when the heart goes before, like a lamp, and 

illumines the pathway, 
Many things are made clear, that else lie hidden 

in darkness." 
Thereupon the priest, her friend and father- 
confessor, 
Said, with a smile, " O daughter ! thy God thus 

speaketh within thee ! 
Talk not of wasted affection, affection never 

was wasted ; 
If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters, 

returning 
Back to their springs, like the rain, shall fill them 

full of refreshment ; 
That which the fountain sends forth returns 

again to the fountain. 
Patience ; accomplish thy labor ; accomplish thy 

work of affection ! 
Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endur- 
ance is godlike. 
Therefore accomplish thy labor of love, till the 

heart is made godlike, 
Purified, strengthened, perfected, and rendered 

more worthy of heaven ! " 
Cheered by the good man's words, Evangeline 

labored and waited. 
Still in her heart she heard the funeral dirge of 

the ocean, 
But with its sound there was mingled a voice that 

whispered, "Despair not ! ' 
Thus did that poor soul wander in want and 

cheerless discomfort, 
Bleeding, barefooted, over the shards and thorns 

of existence. 
Let me essay, O Muse ! to follow the wanderer's 

footsteps ; — 
Not through each devious path, e?.ch changeful 

year of existence ; 
But as a traveller follows a streamlet's course 

through the valley : 
Par from its margin at times, and seeing the 

gleam of its water 
Here and there, in some open space, and at inter- 
vals only ; 
Then drawing nearer its banks, through sylvan 

glooms that conceal it, 
Though he behold it not, he can hear its continu- 
ous murmur ; 
Happy, at length, if he find the spot where it 

reaches an outlet. 



II. 



It was the month of May. Far down the Beau- 
tiful River, 
Past the Ohio shore and past the mouth of the 

Wabash, 
Into the golden stream of the broad and swift 

Mississippi, 
Floated a cumbrous boat, that was rowed by 

Acadian boatmen. 
It was a band of exiles ; a raft, as it were, from 

the shipwrecked 
Nation, scattered along the coast, now floating 

together, 
Bound by the bonds of a common belief and a 

common misfortune ; 
Men and women and children, who, guided by 

hope or by hearsay, 
Sought for their kith and their kin among the 

few-acred farmers 
On the Acadian coast, and the prairies of fair 

Opelousas. 
With them Evangeline went, and her guide, the 

Father Felician. 
Onward o'er sunken sands, through a wilderness 

sombre with forests, 
Day alter day they glided adown the turbulent 

river ; 



Night after night, by their blazing fires, encamped 

on its borders. 
Nowthrough rushing chutes, among green islands, 

where plumelike 
Cotton-trees nodded their shadowy crests, they 

. swept with the cuirent, 
Then emerged into broad lagoons, where silvery 

sand-bars 
Lay in the stream, and along the wimpling waves 

of their margin, 
Shining with snow-white plumes, large flocks of 

pelicans waded. 
Level the landscape grew, and along the shores 

of the river, 
Shaded by china-trees, in the midst of luxuriant 

gardens, 
Stood the houses of planters, with negro-cabins 

and dove-cots. 
They were approaching the region where reigns 

perpetual summer, 



; Where through the Golden Coast, and groves of 

orange and citron, 
| Sweeps witn majestic curve the river away to the 

eastward. 
j They, too, swerved from their course; and, en- 
tering the Bayou of Plaquemine, 
i Soon were lost in a maze of sluggish and devious 

waters, 
: Which, like a network of steel, extended in every 
direction. 

Over their heads the towering and tenebrous 
boughs of the cypr «h 

Met in a dusky arch, and trailing mosses in mid- 
air 

Waved like banners that hang on the walls of an- 
cient cathedrals. 

Deathlike the silence seemed, and unbroken, save 
by the herons 

Home to their roosts in the cedar-trees returning 
at s inset, 

Or by the owl, as he greeted the moon with 
demoniac laughter. 

Lovely the moonlight was as it glanced and 
gleamed on the water, 

Gleamed on the columns of cypress and cedar 
sustaining the arches, 

Down through whose broken vaults it fell as 
through chinks in a ruin. 

Dreamlike, and indistinct, and strange were all 
things around them ; 

And o'er their spirits there came a feeling of 
wonder and sadness, — 

Strange forebodings of ill, unseen that cannot be 
compassed. 

As, at the tramp of a horse's hoof on the turf of 
the prairies. 

Far in advance are closed the leaves of the shrink- 
ing mimosa, 

So, at the hoof-beats of fate, with sad forebodings 
of evil. 

Shrinks and closes the heart, ere the stroke of 
doom has attained it. 

But Evangeline's heart was sustained by a vision, 
that faintly 

Floated before her eyes, and beckoned her on 
through the moonlight. 

It was the thought of her brain that assumed the 
shape of a phantom. 

Through those shadowy isles had Gabriel wan- 
dered before her, 

And every stroke of the oar now brought him 
nearer and nearer. 

Then in his place, at the prow of the boat, rose 
one of the oarsmen, 
And, as a signal sound, if others like them perad- 

venture, 
Sailed on those gloomy and midnight streams, 
blew a blast on his bugle. 
j Wild through the dark colonnades and corridors 
I leafy the blast rang, 



90 



EVANGELINE. 



Breaking the seal of silence, and giving tongues 
to the forest. 

Soundless above them the banners of moss just 
stirred to the music. 

Multitudinous echoes awoke and died ha the dis- 
tance, 

Over the watery floor, and beneath the reverber- 
ant branches ; 

But not a voice replied ; no answer came from 
the darkness ; 

And, when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of 
pain was the silence. 

Then Evangeline slept ; but the boatmen rowed 
through the midnight, 

Silent at times, then singing familiar Canadian 
boat-songs, 

Such as they sang of old on their own Acadian 
rivers, 

While through the night were heard the myste- 
rious sounds of the desert, 

Far off, — indistinct, — as of wave or wind in the 
forest, 

Mixed with the whoop of the crane and the roar 
of the grim alligator. 

Thus ere another noon they emerged from the 

shades ; and before them 
Lay, in the golden sun, the lakes of the Atchafa- 

laya. 
Water-lilies in myriads rocked on the slight 

undulations 
Made by the passing oars, and, resplendent in 

beauty, the lotus 
Lifted her golden crown above the heads of the 

boatmen. 
Faint was the air with the odorous breath of 

magnolia blossoms, 
And with the heat of noon ; and numberless syl- 
van islands. 
Fragrant and thickly embowered with blossoming 

hedges of roses, 
Near to whose shores they glided along, invited 

to slumber. 
Soon by the fairest of these their weary oars were 

suspended. 
Under the boughs of Wachita willows, that grew 

by the margin, 
Safely their boat was moored ; and scattered 

about on the greensward, 
Tirsd with their midnight toil, the weary tra- 
vellers .'lumbered. 
Over them vast and high extended the cope of a 

cedar. 
Swinging from its great arms, the trumpet-flower 

and the grapevine 
Hung their ladder of ropes aloft like the ladder 

of Jacob, 
On whose pendulous stairs the angels ascending, 

descending, 
Were the swift humming-birds, that flitted from 

blossom to blossom. 
Such was the vision Evangeline saw as she slum- 
bered beneath it. 
Filled was her heart with love, and the dawn of 

an opening heaven 
Lighted her soul in sleep with the glory of regions 

celestial. 

Nearer, ever nearer, among the numberless 

islands, 
Darted a light, swift boat, that sped away o'er 

the water, 
Urged on its course by the sinewy arms of 

hunters and trappers. 
Northward its prow was turned, to the land of 

the bison and beaver. 
At the helm sat a youth, with countenance 

thoughtful and careworn. 
Dark and neglected locks overshadowed his brow, 

and a sadness 



Somewhat beyond his years on his face was legi- 
bly written. 

Gabriel was it, who, weary with waiting, unhappy 
and restless, 

Sought in the Western wilds oblivion of self and 

of sorrow. 
I Swiftly they glided along, close under the lee of 

the island, 
j But by the opposite bank, and behind a screen of 

palmettos, 
| So that they saw not the boat, where it lay con- 
cealed in the willows, 
' All undisturbed by the dash of their oars, and 

unseen, were the sleepers, 
j Angel of God was there none to awaken the slum- 
bering maiden. 
| Swiftly they glided away, like the shade of a cloud 
j on the prairie. 

I After the sound of their oars on the tholes had 

died in the distance, 
j As from a magic trance the sleepers awoke, and 
the maiden 

Said with a sigh to the friendly priest, i" O Father 
Felician ! 

Something says in my heart that near me Gabriel 
wanders. 

Is it a foolish dream, an idle and vague supersti- 
tion ? 

Or has an angel passed, and revealed the truth to 
my spirit '1 'j 

Then, with a blush, she added, "Alas for my 
credulous fancy ! 

Unto ears like thine such words as these have no 
meaning." 

But made answer the reverend man, and he smiled 
as he answered, — 

''Daughter, thy words are not idle; nor are they 
to me without meaning. 

Feeling is deep and still ; and. the word that floats 
on the surface 

Is as the tossing buoy, that betrays where the 
anchor is hidden. 

Therefore trust to thy heart, and to what the 
world calls illusions. 

Gabriel truly is near thee ; for not far away to the 
southward, 

On the banks of the Teche, are the towns of St. 
Maur and St. Martin, 

There the long-wandering bride shall be given 
again to her bridegroom, 

There the long-absent pastor regain his flock and 
his sheepfold. 

Beautiful is the land, with its prairies and for- 
ests of fruit-trees ; 

Under the feet a garden of flowers, and the bluest 
of heavens 

Bending above, and resting its dome on the walls 
of the forest. 

They who dwell there have named it the Eden of 
Louisiana. " 

With these words of cheer they arose and con- 
tinued their journey. 
Softly the evening came. The sun from the 

western horizon 
Like a magician extended his golden wand o'er 

the landscape ; 
Twinkling vapors arose ; and sky and water and 

forest 
Seemed all on fire at the touch, and melted and 

mingled together. 
Hanging between two skies, a cloud with edges 

ot silver, 
Floated the boat, with its dripping oars, on the 

motionless water 
Filled was Evangeline's heart with inexpressible 

sweetness. 
Touched by the magic spell, the sacred fountains 

of feeling 
Glowed with the light of love, as the skies and 

waters around her. 



EVANGELINE. 



91 



Then from a neighboring thicket the mocking- 
bird, wildest of singers, 

Swinging aloft on a willow spra}- that hung o'er 
the water, 

Shook from his little throat such floods of deliri- 
ous music, 

That the whole air and the woods and the waves 
seemed silent to listen. 

Plaintive at first were the tones and sad ; then 
soaring to madness 

Seemed they to follow or guide the revel of f ren- j 
zied Bacchantes, 

Single notes were then heard, in sorrowful, low I 
lamentation ; 

Till, having gathered them all, he flung them 
abroad in derision, 

As when, after a storm, a gust of wind through 
the tree-tops 

Shakes down the rattling rain in a crystal shower 
on the branches. 

With such a prelude as this, and hearts that 
throbbed with emotion, 

Slowly they entered the Teche, where it flows 
through the green Opelousas, 

And, through the amber air, above the crest of 
woodland, 

Saw the column of smoke that arose from a neigh- 
boring dwelling ; — 

Sounds of a horn they heard, and the distant low- 
ing of cattle. 



IIL 

Near to the bank of the river, o'ershadowed by 
oaks, from whose branches 



Garlands of Spanish moss and of mystic mistle- 
toe flaunted, 

Such as the Druids cut down with golden hatchets 
at Yule-tide, 

Stood, secluded and still, the house of the herds- 
man. A garden 

Girded it round about with a belt of luxuriant 
blossoms, 

Filling the air with fragrance. The house itself 
was of timbers 

Hewn from the cypress-tree, and carefully fitted 
together. 

Large and low was the roof ; and on slender col- 
umns supported, 

Rose-wreathed, vine-encircled, a broad and spa- 
cious veranda. 

Haunt of the humming-bird and the bee, extended 
around it. 

At each end of the house, amid the flowers of the 
garden, 

Stationed the dove-cots were, as love's perpetual 
symbol. 

Scenes of endless wooing, and endless contentions 
of rivals. 

Silence reigned o'er the place. The line of shadow 
and sunshine 

Ran near the tops of the trees ; but the house 
itself was in shadow, 

And from its chimney -top, ascending and slowly 
expanding 

Into the evening air, a thin blue column of smoke 
rose. 

In the rear of the house, from the garden gate, 
ran a pathway 

Through the great groves of oak to the skirts of 
the limitless prairie, 




Mounted upon his horse, with Spanish saddle and stirrups, 



02 



EVANGELINE. 



Into whose sea of flowers the sun was slowly de- 
scending 

Full in his track of light, like ships with shadowy- 
canvas 

Hanging loose from their spars in a motionless 
calm in the tropics, 

Stood a cluster of trees, with tangled cordage of 
grapevines. 

Just where the woodlands met the flowery surf 

of the prairie, 
Mounted upon his horse, with Spanish saddle and 

stirrups, 
Sat a herdsman, arrayed in gaiters and doublet of 

deerskin. 
Broad and brown was the face that from under 

the Spanish sombrero 
Gazed on the peaceful scene, with the lordly look 

of its master. 
Round about him were numberless herds of kine, 

that were grazing 
Quietly in the meadows, and breathing the va- 
pory freshness 
That uprose from the river, and spread itself over 

the landscape. 
Slowly lifting the horn that hung at his side, and 

expanding 
Fully his broad, deep chest, he blew a blast, that 

resounded 
Wildly and sweet and far, through the still damp 

air of the evening. 
Suddenly out of the grass the long white horns of 

the cattle 
Rose like flakes of foam on the adverse currents 

of ocean. 
Silent a moment they gazed, then bellowing rushed 

o'er the prairie, 
And the whole mass became a cloud, a shade in 

the distance. 
Then, as the herdsman turned to the house, 

through the gate of the garden 
Saw he the forms of the priest and the maiden 

advancing to meet him. 
Suddenly down from his horse he sprang in 

amazement, and forward 
Rushed with extended arms and exclamations of 

wonder ; 
When they beheld his face, they recognized Basil 

the blacksmith. 
Hearty his welcome was, as he led his guests to 

the garden. 
There in an arbor of roses with endless question 

and answer 
Gave they vent to their hearts, and renewed their 

friendly embraces, 
Laughing and weeping by turns, or sitting silent 

and thoughtful. 
Thoughtful, for Gabriel came not ; and now dark 

doubts and misgivings 
Stole o'er the maiden's heart ; and Basil, scme- 

what embarrassed, 
Broke the silence and said, ' l If you came by the 

Atchafalaya, 
How have you nowhere encountered my Gabriel's 

boat on the bayous ? " 
Over Evangeline's face at the words of Basil a 

shade passed. 
Tears came into her eyes, and she said, with a 

tremulous accent, 
"Gone? is Gabriel gone?" and, concealing her 

face on his shoulder. 
All her o'erburdened heart gave way, and she 

wept and lamented. 
Then the good Basil said, — and his voice grew 

blithe as he said it. — 
44 Be of good cheer, my child ; it is only to-day he 

departed. 
Foolish boy ! he has left me alone with my herds 

and my horses. 
Moody and restless grown, and tried and troubled, 

his spirit 



Could no longer endure the calm of this quiet 

existence. 
Thinking ever of thee, uncertain and sorrowful ever, 
Ever silent, or speaking only of thee and his 

troubles, 
He at length had become so tedious to men and to 

maidens, 
Tedious even to me, that at length I bethought 

me, and sent him 
Unto the town of Adayes to trade for mules with 

the Spaniards. 
Thence he will follow the Indian trails to the 

Ozark Mountains, 
Hunting for furs in the forests, on rivers trapping 

the beaver. 
Therefore be of good cheer ; we will follow the 

fugitive lover ; 
He is not far on his way, and the Fates and the 

streams are against him. 
Up and away to-morrow, and through the red dew 

of the morning 
We will follow him fast, and bring him back to 

his prison." 

Then glad voices were heard, and up from the 

banks of the river, 
Borne aloft on his comrades' arms, came Michael 

the fiddler. 
Long under Basil's roof had he lived like a god 

on Olympus, 
Having no other care than dispensing music to 

mortals. 
I Far renowned was he for his silver locks and his 

fiddle. 
j "Long live Michael," they cried, "our brave 

Acadian minstrel ! " 
| As they bore him aloft in triumphal procession ; 

and straightway 
Father Felician advanced with Evangeline, greet- 
ing the old man 
Kindly and oft, and recalling the past, while 

Basil, enrapture!, 
Hailed with hilarious joy his old companions and 

gossips, 
Laughing loud and long, and embracing mothers 

and daughters. 
Much they marvelled to see the wealth of the 

cidevant blacksmith, 
All his domains and his herds, and his patriarchal 

demeanor ; 
Much they marvelled to hear his tales of the soil 

and the climate, 
And of the prairies, whose numberless herds were 

his who would take them ; 
Each one thought in his heart, that he, too, 

would go and do likewise. 
j Thus they ascended the steps, and, crossing the 

breezy veranda, 
Entered the hall of the house, where already the 

supper of Basil 
Waited his late return ; and they rested and 

feasted together. 

Over the joyous feast the sudden darkness de- 
scended. 
All was silent without, and, illuming the land- 
scape with silver, 
Fair rose the dewy moon and the myriad stars ; 

but within doors, 
Brighter than these, shone the faces of friends in 

the glimmering lamplight. 
j Then from his station aloft, at the head of the 

table, the herdsman 
! Poured forth his heart and his wine together in 

endless profusion. 
; Lighting his pipe, that was filled with sweet Nat- 
chitoches tobacco, 
Thus he spake to his guests, who listened, and 

smiled as they listened : — 
" Welcome once more, my friends, who long have 
been friendless and homeless, 



EVANGELINE. 



93 






Welcome once more to a home, that is better per- 
chance than the old one ! 
Here no hungry winter congeals our blood like 

the rivers ; 
Here no stony ground provokes the wrath of the 

farmer. 
Smoothly the ploughshare runs through the soil, 

as a keel through the water. 
All the year round the orange-groves are in blos- 
som ; and grass grows 
More in a single nighb than a whole Canadian 

summer. 
Here, too, numberless herds run wild and un- 
claimed in the prairies ; 
Here, too, lands may be had for the asking, and 

forests of timber 
With a few blows of the axe are hewn and framed 

into houses. 
After your houses are built, and your fields are 

yellow with harvests. 
No King George of England shall drive you away 

from your homesteads, 
Burning your dwellings and barns, and stealing 

your farms and your cattle. 1 ' 
Speaking these words, he blew a wrathful cloud 

from his nostrils. 
While his huge, brown hand came thundering 

down on the table, 
So that the guests all started ; and Father Feli- 

cian, astounded, 
Suddenly paused, with a pinch of snuff half-way 

to his nostrils. 
But the brave Basil resumed, and his words were 

milder and gayer : — 
"Only beware of the fever, my friends, beware 

of the fever ! 
For it is not like that of our cold Acadian cli- 
mate, 
Cured by wearing a spider hung round one's neck 

in a nutshell ! " 
Then there were voices heard at the door, and 

footsteps approaching 
Sounded upon the stairs and the floor of the 

breezy veranda. 
It was the neighboring Creoles and small Acadian 

planters, 
Who had been summoned all to the house of Basil 

the Herdsman. 
Merry the meeting was of ancient comrades and 

neighbors : 
Friend clasped friend in his arms ; and they who 

before were as strangers, 
Meeting in exile, became straightway as friends 

to each other, 
Drawn by the gentle bond of a common country 

together. 
But in the neighboring hall a strain of music, 

proceeding 
From the accordant strings of Michael's melodious 

fiddle, 
Broke up all further speech. Away, like children 

delighted, 
All things forgott?n besides, they gave themselves 

to the maddening 
Whirl of the dizzy dance, as it swept and swayed 

to the music. 
Dreamlike, with beaming eyes and the rush of 

fluttering garments. 

Meanwhile, apart, at the head of the hall, the 
priest and the herdsman 

Sat, conversing together of past and present and 
future ; 

While Evangeline stood like one entranced, for 
within her 

Olden memories rose, and loud in the midst of the 
music 

Heard she the sound of the sea, and an irrepressi- 
ble sadness 

Came o'er her heart, and unseen she stole forth 
into the garden. 



Beautiful was the night. Behind the black wall 

of the forest, 
Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon. 

On the river 
Fell here and there through the branches a trem- 
ulous gleam of the moonlight, 
Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened 

and devious spirit. 
Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers 

of the garden 
Poured out tneir souls in odors, that were their 

prayers and confessions 
Unto the night, as it went its way, like a silent 

Carthusian. 
Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with 

shadows and night-dews. 
Hung the heart of the maiden. The calm and 

the magical moonlight 
Seemed to inundate her soul with indefinable 

longings, 
As, through the garden gate, and beneath the 

shade of the oak-trees, 
Passed she along the path to the e:lge of the 

measureless prairie. 
Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, and fire- 
flies 
Gleaming and floating away in mingled and infi- 
nite numbers. 
Over her head the stars, the thoughts of God in 

the heavens, 
Shone on the eyes of man, who had ceased to mar- 
vel and worship, 
Save when a blazing comet was seen on the walls 

of that temple, 
As if a hand had appeared and written upon them. 

" Upharsin." 
And the soul of the maiden, between the stars 

and the fire-flies. 
Wandered alone, and she cried, " O Gabriel ! O 

my beloved ! 
Art thou so near unto me, and vet I cannot be- 
hold thee ? 
Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice does 

not reach me ? 
Ah! how often thy feet have trod this path to 

the prairie ! 
Ah ! how often thine eyes have looked on the 

woodlands around me ! 
Ah ! how often beneath this oak, returning from 

labor. 
Thou hast lain down to rest, and to dream of me 

in thy slumber? ! 
When shall these eyes behold, these arms be 

folded about thee ? " 
Loud and sudden and near the note of a whip- 

poorwill sounded 
Like a flute in the woods ; and anon, through the 

neighboring thickets, 
Farther and farther away it floated and dropped 

into silence. 
"•Patience!" whispered the oaks from oracular 

caverns of darkness : 
And. from the moonlit meadow, a sigh responded, 

" To-morrow ! " 

Bright rose the sun next day ; and all the flowers 

of the garden 
Bathed his shining feet with their tears, and 

anointed his tresses 
With the delicious balm that they bore in their 

vases of crystal. 
"Farewell! " said the priest, as he stood at the 

shadowy threshold ; 
" See that you bring us the Prodigal Son from Lis 

fasting and famine, 
And, too, the Foolish Virgin, who slept when the 

bridegroom was coming." 
'* Farewell ! " answered the maiden, and, smiling, 

with Basil descended 
Down to the river's brink, where the boatmen 

already were waiting. 



94 



EVANGELINE. 



Thus beginning their journey with morning, and 

sunshine, and gladness, 
Swiftly they followed the flight of him who was 

speeding before them, 
Blown by the blast of fate like a dead leaf over 

the desert. 
Not that day, nor the next, nor yet the day that 

succeeded, 
Found they trace of his course, in lake or forest 

or river, 
Nor, after many days, had they found him ; but 

vague and uncertain 
Rumors alone were their guides through a wild 

and desolate country ; 
Till, at the little inn of the Spanish town of 

Adayes, 
Weary and worn, they alighted, and learned from 

the garrulous landlord, 
That on the day before, with horses and guides 

and companions, 
Gabriel left the village, and took the road of the 

prairies. 

IV. 

Far in the West there lies a desert land, where 
the mountains 

Lift, through perpetual snows, their lofty and 
luminous summits. 

Down from their jagged, deep ravines, where the 
gorge, like a gateway, 

Opens a passing rude to the wheels of the emi- 
grant's wagon, 

Westward the Oregon flows and the Walleway 
and Owyhee. 

Eastward, with devious course, among the Wind- 
river Mountains, 

Through the Sweet-water Valley precipitate leaps 
the Nebraska ; 

And to the south, from Fontaine-qui-bout and 
the Spanish sierras, 

Fretted with sands and rocks, and swept by the 
wind of the desert, 

Numberless torrents, with ceaseless sound, de- 
scend to the ocean, 

Like the great chords of a harp, in loud and 
solemn vibrations. 

Spreading between these streams are the won- 
drous, beautiful prairies, 

Billowy bays of grass ever rolling in shadow and 
sunshine, 

Bright with luxuriant clusters of roses and pur- 
ple amorphas. 

Over them wandered the buffalo herds, and the 
elk and the roebuck ; 

Over them wandered the wolves, and herds of 
riderless horses ; 

Fires that blast and blight, and winds that are 
weary with travel ; 

Over them wander the scattered tribes of Ish- 
mael's children, 

Staining the desert with blood ; and above their 
terrible war -trails 

Circles and sails aloft, on pinions majestic, the 
vulture, 

Like the implacable soul of a chieftain slaugh- 
tered in battle, 

By invisible stairs ascending and scaling the 
heavens. 

Here and there rise smokes from the camps of 
these savage marauders ; 

Here and there rise groves from the margins of 
swift-running rivers ; 

And the grim, taciturn bear, the anchorite monk 
of the desert, 

Climbs down their dark ravines to dig for roots by 
the brook-side, 

And over all is the sky, the clear and crystalline 
heaven, 

Like the protecting hand of God inverted above 
them. 



Into this wonderful land, at the base of the Ozark 

Mountains, 
Gabriel far had entered, with hunters and trap- 
pers behind him. 
Day after day, with their Indian guides, the 

maiden and Basil 
Followed his flying steps, and thought each day 

to o'ertake him. 
Sometimes they saw, or thought they saw, the 

smoke of his camp-fire 
Rise in the morning air from the distant plain ; 

but at nightfall, 
When they had reached the place, they found 

only embers and ashes . 
And, though their hearts were sad at times and 

their bodies were weary, 
Hope still guided them on, as the magic Fata 

Morgana 
Showed them her lakes of light, that retreated 

and vanished before them. 



Once, as they sat by their evening fire, there 

silently entered 
Into the little camp an Indian woman, whose 

features 
Wore deep traces of scrrow, and patience as 

great as her sorrow. 
She was a Shawnee woman returning home to her 

people, 
From the far-off hunting-grounds of the cruel 

Camanches, 
Where her Canadian husband, a Coureur-des- 

Bois, had been murdered. 
Touched were their hearts at her story, and 

warmest and friendliest welcome 
Gave they, with words of cheer, and she sat and 

feasted among them 
On the buffalo-meat and the venison cooked on 

the embers. 
But when their meal was done, and Basil and all 

his companions, 
Worn with the long day's march and the chase of 

the deer and the bison, 
Stretched themselves on the ground, and slept 

where the quivering fire-light 
Flashed on their swarthy cheeks, and their forms 

wrapped up in their blankets. 
Then at the door of Evangeline's tent she sat and 

repeated 
Slowly, with soft, low voice, and the charm of 

her Indian accent, 
All the tale of her love, with its pleasures, and 

pains, and reverses. 
Much Evangeline wept at the tale, and to know- 
that another 
Hapless heart like her own had loved and had 

been disappointed. 
Moved to the depths of her soul by pity and 

woman's compassion, 
Yet in her sorrow pleased that one who had 

suffered was near her, 
She in turn related her love and all its disasters. 
Mute with wonder the Shawnee sat, and when she 

had ended 
Still was mute ; but at length, as if a mysterious 

horror 
Passed through her brain, she spake, and repeated 

the tale of the Mowis ; 
Mowis, the bridegroom of snow, who won and 

wedded a maiden, 
But, when the morning came, arose and passed 

from the wigwam, 
Fading and melting away and dissolving into the 

sunshine, 
Till she beheld him no more, though she followed 

far into the forest. 
Then, in those sweet, low tones, that seemed like 

a weird incantation, 
Told she the tale of the fair Lilinau, who was 

wooed by a phantom, 



EVANGELINE. 



05 




When they had reached the place, they found only ember?. 



That, through the pines, o'er her father's lodge, 
in the hush of the twilight, 

Breathed like the evening wind, and whispered 
love to the maiden, 

Till she followed his green and waving plume 
through the forest, 

And nevermore returned, nor was seen again by 
her people. 

Silent with wonder and strange surprise, Evan- 
geline listened 

To the so£t flow of her magical words, till the 
region around her 

Seemed like enchanted ground, and her swarthy 
guest the enchantress. 

Slowly over the tops of the Ozark Mountains the 
moon rose, 

Lighting the little tent, and with a mysterious 
splendor 

Touching the sombre leaves, and embracing and 
filling the woodland. 

With a delicious sound the brook rushed by, and 
the branches 

Swayed and sighed overhead in scarcely audible 
whispers. 

Filled with the thoughts of love was Evangeline's 
heart, but a secret, 

Subtile sense crept in of pain and indefinite ter- 
ror, 

As the cold, poisonous snake creeps into the nest 
of the swallow. 

It was no earthly fear. A breath from the re- 
gion of spirits 

Seemed to float in the air of night ; and she felt 
for a moment 



' That, like the Indian maid, she, too, was pursu- 
ing a phantom. 
With this thought she slept, and the fear and the 
phantom had vanished. 



Early upon the morrow the march was resumed ; 

and the Shawnee 
Said, as they journeyed along, " On the western 

slope of these mountains 
Dwells in his little village the Black Robe chief 

of the Mission. 
Much he teaches the people, and tells them of 

Mary and Jesus ; 
Loud laugh their hearts with joy, and weep with 

pain, as they hear him." 
Then, with a sudden and secret emotion, Evan- 
geline answered, 
" Let us go to the Mission, for there good tidings 

await us ! " 
Thither they turned their steeds ; and behind a 

spur of the mountains. 
Just as the sun went down, they heard a murmur 

of voices, 
And in a meadow green and broad, by the bank 

of a river, 
Saw the tents of the Christians, the tents of the 

Jesuit Mission. 
Under a towering oak, that stood in the midst of 

the village. 
Knelt the Black Robe chief with his children. A 

crucifix fastened 
High on the trunk of the tree, and overshadowed 

by grapevines, 



96 



EVANGELINE. 



Looked with its agonized face ori the multitude 
kneeling beneath it. 

This was their rural chapel. Aloft, through the 
intricate arches 

Or its aerial roof, arose the chant of their ves- 
pers, 

Mingling its notes with the soft susurrus and 
sighs of the branches. 

SJent, with heads uncovered, the travellers, 
nearer approaching. 

Knelt on the swarded rloor, and joined in the 
evening devotions, 

But when the service was done, and the benedic- 
tion had fallen 

Forth from the hands of the priest, like seed from 
the hands of the sower, 

Slowly the reverend man advanced to the stran- 
gers, and bade them 

Welcome ; and when they replied, he smiled with 
benignant expression, 

Hearing the homelike sounds of his mother- 
tongue in the forest, 

And, with words of kindness, conducted them 
into his wigwam. 

There upon mats and skins they reposed, and on 
cakes of the maize-ear 

Feasted, and slaked their thirst from the water- 
gourd of the teacher. 

Soon was their story told ; and the priest with 
solemnity answered : — 

"Not six suns have risen and set since Gabriel, 
seated 

On this mat by my side, where now the maiden 
reposes, 

Told me this same sad tale ; then arose and con- 
tinued his journey ! " 

Soft was the voice of the priest, and he spake 
with an accent of kindness ; 

But on Evangeline's heart fell his words as in 
winter the snow-flakes 

Fall into some lone nest from which the birds 
have departed. 

" Far to the north he has gone," continued the 
priest ; " but in autumn, 

When the chase is done, will return again to the 
Mission. " 

Then Evangeline said, and her voice was meek 
and submissive, 

" Let me remain with thee, for my soul is sad 
and afflicted." 

So seemed it wise and well unto all ; and betimes 
on the morrow, 

Mounting his Mexican steed, with his Indian 
guides and companions, 

Homeward Basil returned, and Evangeline 
stayed at the Mission. 

Slowly, slowly, slowly the days succeeded each 

other, — 
Days and weeks and months ; and the fields of 

maize that were springing 
Green from the ground when a stranger she came, 

now waving above her, 
Lifted their slender shafts, with leaves interlacing, 

and forming 
Cloisters for mendicant crows and granaries pil- 
laged by squirrels. 
Then in the golden weather the maize was husked, 

and the maidens 
Blushed at each blood-red ear, for that betokened 

a lover, 
But at the crooked laughed, and called it a thief 

in the corn-field. 
Even the blood-red ear to Evangeline brought 

not her lover. 
"Patience ! " the priest would say ; "have faith, 

and thy prayer will be answered ! 
Look at this vigorous plant that lifts its head 

from the meadow, 
See how its leaves are turned to the north, as true 

as tho magnet ; 



This is the compass-flower, that the finger of 

God has planted 
! Here in the houseless wild, to direct the traveller's 

journey 
I Over the sea-like, pathless, limitless waste of the 

desert. 
Such in the soul of man is faith. The blossoms 

of passion, 
Gay and luxuriant flowers, are brighter and fuller 

of fragrance, 
But they beguile us, and lead us astray, and their 

odor is deadly. 
Only this humble plant can guide us here, and 

hereafter 
Crown us with asphodel flowers, that are wet 

with the dews of nepenthe." 

So came the autumn, and passed, and the win- 
ter, — yet Gabriel came not ; 
Blossomed the opening spring, and the notes of 
the robin and bluebird 

; Sounded sweet upon wold and in wood, yet Ga- 
briel came not. 

j But on the breath of the summer winds a rumor 
was wafted 

| Sweeter than song of bird, or hue or odor of 
blossom. 
Far to the north and east, it said, in the Michi- 

i gan forests, 

! Gabriel had his lodge by the banks of the Saginaw 

! River. 

; And, with returning guides, that sought the lakes 

of St. Lawrence, 
Saying a sad farewell, Evangeline went from the 

I Mission. 

j When over weary ways, by long and perilous 

i marches, 

, She had attained at length the depths of the 
Michigan forests, 

; Found she the hunter's lodge deserted and fallen 
to ruin ! 

Thus did the long sad years glide on, and in 
seasons and places 
Divers and distant far was seen the wandering 

maiden ; — 
Now in the Tent s of Grace of the meek Moravian 

Missions, 
Now in the noisy camps and the battle-fields of 
the army, 
! Now in secluded hamlets, in towns and populous 

cities. 
Like a phantom she came, and passed away unre- 
membered. 
I Fair was she and young, when in hope began the 

long journey ; 
I Faded was she and old, when in disappointment 

it ended. 
I Each succeeding year stole something away from 

her beauty, 
| Leaving behind it, broader and deeper, the gloom 

and the shadow. 
J Then there appeared and spread faint streaks of 

gray o'er her forehead, 
| Dawn of another life, that broke o'er her earthly 
horizon, 
As in the Eastern sky the first faint streaks of 
the morning. 



V, 



In that delightful land which is washed by the 
Delaware's waters, 

Guarding in sylvan shades the name of Penn the 
apostle, 

Stands on the banks of its beautiful stream the 
city he founded. 

There all the air is balm, and the peach is the em- 
blem of beauty. 

And the streets still re-echo the names of the 
trees of the forest, 



EVANGELINE. 



97 



As if they fain would appoa.se the Dryads whose 

haunts they molested. 
There from the troubled sea had Evangeline 

landed, an exile, 
Finding among the children of Penn a home and ! 

a country. 
There old Rene Leblanc had died; and when he j 

departed, 
Saw at his side only one of all his hundred de- ' 

scendants. 
Something at least there was in the friendly ! 

streets of the city, 
Something that spake to her heart, and made her j 

no longer a stranger ; 
And her ear was pleased with the Thee and Thou ! 

of the Quakers, 
For it recalled the past, the old Acadian country, 
Where all men were equal, and all were brothers | 

and sisterr. 
So, when the fruitless search, the disappointed 

endeavor, 
Ended, to recommence no more upon earth, un- 
complaining, 
Thither, as leaves to the light, were turned her j 

thoughts and her footsteps. 
As from a mountain's top the rainy mists of the 

morning 
Roll away, and afar we behold the landscape 

below us, 
Sun -illumined, with shining rivers and cities and 

hamlets, 
So fell the mists from her mind, and she saw the 

world far below her, 
Dark no longer, but all illumined with love ; and 

the pathway 
Which she had climbed so far, lying smooth and 

fair in the distance. 
Gabriel was not forgotten. Within her heart was 

his image, 
Clothed in the beauty of love and youth, as last 

she beheld him, 
Only more beautiful made by his deathlike silence j 

and absence. 
Into her thoughts of him time entered not, for it 

was not. 
Over him years had no power ; he was not i 

changed, but transfigured ; 
He had become to her heart as one who is dead, 

and not absent ; 
Patience and abnegation of self, and devotion to ' 

others, 
This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had 

taught her. 
So was her love diffused, but, like to some odorous 

spices, 
Suffered no waste nor loss, though filling the air 

with aroma. 
Other hope had she none, nor wish in life, but to 

follow 
Meekly, with reverent steps, the sacred feet of 

her Saviour. 
Thus many years she lived as a Sister of Mercy ; j 

frequenting 
Lonely and wretched roofs in the crowded lanes ! 

of the city, 
Where distress and want concealed themselves 

from the sunlight, 
Where disease and sorrow in garrets languished 

neglected. 
Night af ter night, wh Q n the world, was asleep, as | 

the watchman repeated 
Loud, through the gusty streets, that all was well ! 

in the city, 
High at some lonely window he saw the light of 

her taper. 
Day after day, in the gray of the dawn, as slow i 

through the suburbs 
Plodded the German farmer, with flowers and i 

fruits for the market. 
Met he that me k. pale face, returning home ! 

from its watchings. 
7 



Then it came to pass that a pestilence fell on 

the city, 
Presaged by wondrous signs, and mostly by 

flocks of wild pigeons. 
Darkening the sun in their flight, with naught in 

their craws but an acorn. 
And, as the tides of the sea arise in the month 

of September, 
Flooding some silver stream, till it .spreads to a 

lake in the meadow, 
So deatii flooded life, and, o'erflowing its natural 

margin, 
Spread to a brackish lake, the silver stream of 

existence. 
Wealth had no power to bribe, nor beauty to 

charm, the oppressor; 
But all perished alike beneath the scourge of his 

anger; — 
Only, alas ! the poor, who had neither friends 

nor attendants. 
Crept away to die in the almshouse, home of the 

homeless. 
Then in the suburbs it stood, in the midst of 

meadows and woodlands ; — 
Now the city surrounds it; but still, with its 

gateway and wicket 
Meek, in the midst of splendor, its humble walls 

seem to echo 
Softly the words of the Lord: — "The poor ye 

always have with you." 
Thither, by night ami by day, came the Sister of 

Mercy. The dying 
Looked up into her face, and thought, indeed, to 

behold there 
Gleams of celestial light encircle her forehead 

with splendor. 
Such as the artist paints o'er the brows of saints 

and apostles, 
Or such as hangs by night o'er a city seen at a 

distance. 
Unto their eyes it seemed the lamps of the city 

celestial, 
Into whose shining gates erelong their spirits 

would enter. 

Thus, on a Sabbath morn, through the streets, 

deserted and silent, 
Wending her quiet way, she entered the door of 

the almshouse. 
Sweet on the summer air was the odor of flowers 

in the garden ; 
And she paused on her way to gather the fairest 

among them, 
That the dying once more might rejoice in their 

fragrance and beauty. 
Then, as she mounted the stairs to the corridors, 

cooled by the east-wind. 
Distant and soft on her ear fell the chimes from 

the belfry of Christ Church, 
While, intermingled with these, across the 

meadows were wafted 
Sounds of psalms, that were sung by the Swedes 

in their church at Wicaco. 
Soft as descending wings fell the calm of the hour 

on her spirit ; 
Something within her said, "At length thy trials 

are ended : " 
And, with light in her looks, she entered the 

chambers of sickness, 
Noiselessly moved about the assiduous, careful 

attendants, 
Moistening the feverish lip, and- the aching brow, 

and in silence 
Closing the sightless eyes of the dead, and con- 
cealing their faces, 
Where on their pallets they lay, like drifts of 

snow by the roadside. 
Many a languid head, upraised as Evangeline 

entered, 
Turned on its pillow of pain to gaze while she 

passed, for her presence 



98 



EVANGELINE. 




Vanished the vision away, but 



Fell on their hearts like a ray of the sun on the 

walls of a prison. 
And, as she looked around,, she saw how Death, 

the consoler, 
Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed 

it forever. 
Many familiar forms had disappeared in the 

night time ; 
Vacant their places were, or filled already by 

strangers. 



Suddenly, as if arrested by fear or a feeling of 

wonder, 
Still she stood, with her colorless lips apart, 

while a shudder 
Ran through her frame, and, forgotten, the 

flowerets dropped from her fingers, 
And from her eyes and cheeks the light and 

bloom of the morning. 
Then there escaped from her lips a cry of such 

terrible anguish, 
That the dying heard it, and started up from 

their pillows. 
On the pallet before her was stretched the form 

of an old man. 
Long, and thin, and gray were the locks that 

shaded his temples ; 
But, as he lay in the morning light, his face for a 

moment 
Seemed to assume once more the forms of its 

earlier manhood ; 
So are wont to be changed the faces of those who 

are dying. 
Hot and red on his lips still burned the flush of 

the fever, 



As if life, like the Hebrew, with blood had be- 
sprinkled its portals, 

That the Angel of Death might see the sign, and 
pass over. 

Motionless, senseless, dying, he lay, and his spirit 
exhausted 

Seemed to be sinking down through infinite 
depths in the darkness, 

Darkness of slumber and death, forever sinking 
and sinking, 

Then through those realms of shade, in multiplied 
reverberations, 

Heard he that cry of pain, and through the hush 
that succeeded 

Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and 
saint-like, 

"Gabriel ! O my beloved ! " and died away into 
silence. 

Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the home 
of his childhood ; 

Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers 
among them, 

Village, and mountain, and woodlands ; and, 
walking under their shadow, 

As in the days of her youth, Evangeline rose in 
his vision. 

Tears came into his eyes ; and as slowly he lifted 
his eyelids. 

Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline knelt 
by his bedside. 

Vainly he strove to whisper her name, for the ac- 
cents unuttered 

Died on his lips, and their motion revealed what 
his tongue would have spoken. 

Vainly he strove to rise ; and Evangeline, kneel- 
ing beside him, 



THE SEASIDE AND THE FIRESIDE 



00 



Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her 

bosom. 
Sweet was the light of his eyes ; but it suddenly 

sank into darkness, 
As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of wind 

at a casement. 

All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and 

the sorrow, 
All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied 

longing, 
All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of 

patience ! 
And, as she pressed once more the lifeless head to 

her bosom, 
Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, 
' u Father, I thank thee!" 



Still stands the forest primeval ; but far away 

from its shadow, 
Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers 

are sleeping. 
Under the humble walls of the little Catholic 

churchyard, 
In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and 

unnoticed. 



Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing be- 
side them, 

I Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are 
at rest and forever, 

| Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no 
longer are busy, 

j Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have 
ceased from their labors, 

! Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have com- 
pleted their journey ! 

Still stands the forest primeval ; but under the 

shade of its branches 
Dwells another race, with other customs and lan- 
guage. 
Only along the shore of the mournful and misty 

Atlantic 
Linger a few Acadian peasants, whose fathers 

from exile 
Wandered back to their native land to die in its 

bosom. 
In the fisherman's cot the wheel and the loom are 

still busy ; 
Maidens still wear their Norman caps and their 

kirtles of homespun, 
And by the evening fire repeat Evangeline's 

story, 
While from its rocky caverns the deep-voiced, 

neighboring ocean 
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the 

wail of the forest. 



THE* SEASIDE AND THE FIEESTDE. 



DEDICATION. 

As one who, walking in the twilight gloom, 

Hears round about him voices as it darkens, 
And seeing not the forms from which they 
come, 
Pauses from time to time, and turns and heark- 
ens; 

So walking here in twilight, O my friends ! 

I hear your voices, softened by the distance, 
And pause, and tarn to listen, as each sends 

His words of friendship, comfort, and assist- 



If any thought of mine, or sung or told, 
Has ever given delight or consolation, 

Ye have repaid me back a thousand-fold, 
By every friendly sign and salutation. 



Thanks for the sympathies that ye have shown ! 
Thanks for each kindly word, each silent 
token, 
That teaches me, when seeming most alone, 
Friends are around us, though no word be 
spoken. 

Kind messages, that pass from land to land ; 

Kind letters, that betray the heart's deep his- 
tory, 
In which we feel the pressure of a hand, — 

One touch of fire,— and all the rest is mystery ! 



The pleasant books, that silently among 

Our household treasures take familiar places, 

And are to us as if a living tongue 
Spake from the printed leaves or pictured faces ! 

I Perhaps on earth I never shall behold, 

With eye of sense, your outward form and sem- 
blance ; 

! Therefore to me ye never will grow old. 

But live forever young in my remembrance. 

! Never grow old, nor change, nor pass away ! 
Your gentle voices will flow on forever, 
When life grows bare and tarnished with decay, 
As through a leafless landscape flows a river. 

Not chance of birth or place has made us friends, 
Being oftentimes of different tongues and na- 
tions, 
But the endeavor for the selfsame ends, 

With the same hopes, and fears, and aspira- 
tions. 

Therefore I hope to join your seaside walk, 
Saddened, and mostly silent, with emotion ; 

Not interrupting with intrusive talk 

The grand, inajestio symphonies of ocean. 

Therefore I hope, as no unwelcome guest, 

At your warm fireside, when the lamps are 
lighted, 

To have my place reserved among the rest, 
Nor stand as one unsought and uninvited ! 



100 



THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 



BY THE SEASIDE. 




In the ship-yard stood the master, 
With the model of the vessel. 



THE BUILDING OP THE SHIP. 

"Build me straight, O worthy Master ! 

Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel, 
That shall laugh at all disaster, 

And with wave and whirlwind wrestle ! " 

The merchant's word 

Delighted the Master heard ; 

For his heart was in his work, and the heart 

Giveth grace unto every Art. 

A quiet smile played round his lips. 

As the eddies and dimples of the tide 

Play round tha bows of ships, 

That steadily at anchor ride. 

And with a voice that was full of glee, 

He answered, " Erelong we w 11 launch 

A vessel as goodly, and strong, and stanch, 

As ever weathered a wintry sa ! " 

And first with nicest sk'll and art, 

Perfect and finished in every part, 

A little model the M ister wrought, 

Which should be to the larger plan 

What the child is to the man, 

Its counterpart in miniature ; 

That with a hand more swift and sure 

The greater labor might be brought 

To answer to his inward thought. 

And as he labored, his mind ran o'er 

The various ships that were built of yore, 



And above them all, and strangest of all 

Towered the Great Harry, crank and tall, 

Whose picture was hanging on the wall, 

With bows and stern raised high in air, 

And balconies hanging here and there, 

And signal lanterns and flags afloat, 

And eight round towers, like those that frown 

From some old castle, looking down 

Upon the drawbridge and the moat. 

And he said with a smile, tl Our ship, I wis, 

Shall be of another form than this ! " 

It was of another form, indeed ; 

Built for freight, and yet for speed, 

A beautiful and gallant craft ; 

Broad in the beam, that the stress of the blast, 

Pressing down upon sail find mast, 

Might not the sharp bows overwhelm ; 

Bi'oad in the beam, but sloping aft 

With graceful curve and slow degrees, 

That she might be docile to the helm, 

And that the currents of paited seas, 

Closing behind, with mighty force, 

Might aid and not impede her course. 

In the ship-yard stood the master, 

With the model of the vessel, 
That should laugh at all disaster, 

And with wave and whirlwind wrestle ! 

Covering many a rood of ground, 
Lay the timber piled around ; 



THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 



101 



Timber of chestnut, and elm, and oak, 

And scattered here and there, with these, 

The knarred and crooked cedar knees; 

Brought from regions far away, 

From Pascagoula's sunny bay, 

And the hanks of the roaring Roanoke ! 

Ah ! what a wondrous thing it is 

To note how many wheels of toil 

One thought, one word, can set in motion ! 

There's not a ship that sails the ocean, 

But every climate, every soil, 

Must bring its tribute, great or small, 

And help to build the wooden wall ! 

The sun was rising o'er the sea, 
And long the level shadows lay, 
As if they, too, the beams would be 
Of some great, airy argosy, 
Framed and launched in a single day. 
That silent architect, the sun, 
Had hewn and laid them every one, 
Ere the work of man was yet begun. 
Beside the master, when he spoke, 
A youth, against an anchor leaning, 
Listened, to catch his slightest meaning. 
Only the long waves, as they broke 
In ripples on the pebbly beach, 
Interrupted the old man's speech. 

Beautiful they were, in sooth, 
The old man and the fiery youth ! 
The old man, in whose busy brain 
Many a ship that sailed the main 
Was modelled o'er and o'er again ; — 
The fiery youth, who was to be 
The heir of his dexterity, 



\ The heir of his horse, and his daughter's hand, 
When he had built and launched trom land 
What the elder head had planned. 



| "Thus," said he, "will we build this .ship ! 
I Lay square the blocks upon t'.e Blip, 

And follow well this plan of mine. 
; Choose the tun hers with greatest care; 

Of all that is unsound beware ; 

For only what is sound and strong 

To this vessel shall belong. 

Cedar of Maine and Georgia pine 

Here together shall combine. 

A goodly frame, and a goodly fame, 

And the Union be her name ! 

For the day that gives her to the Fea 

Snail give my daughter unto thee I" 

The Master's word 

Enraptured the young man heard ; 
j And as he turned his face ashle. 

With a look of joy and a thrill of pride, 
I Standing before 
| Her father's door, 

He saw the form of his promised bride. 

The sun shone on her golden hair, 
j And her cheek was glowing fresh and fair, 

With the breath of morn and the soft sea air. 
! Like a beauteous barge was she, 

Still at rest on the sandy beach, 

Just beyond the billow's reach ; 

But he 

Was the restless, seething, stormy sea ! 

Ah, how skilful grows the hand 
That obeyeth Love's command ! 




Standina: before Her father's door 

He saw the form of his promised bride." 



102 



THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 




The jaded steers, panting beneath the goad. 



It is the heart, and not the brain, 
That to the highest doth attain, 
And he who followeth Love's behest 
Far excelleth all the rest ! 

Thus with the rising of the sun 

Was the noble task begun, 

And soon throughout the ship-yard's bounds 

Were heard the intermingled sounds 

Of axes and of mallets, plied 

With vigorous arms on every side ; 

Plied so deftly and so well, 

That, ere the shadows of evening fell, 

The keel of oak for a noble ship, 

Scarfed and bolted, straight and strong, 

Was lying ready, and stretched along 

The blocks, well placed upon the slip. 

Happy, thrice happy, every one 

Who sees his labor well begun. 

And not perplexed and multiplied, 

By idly waiting for time and tide ! 

And when the hot, long day was o'er, 

The young man at the master's door 

Sat with the maiden, calm and still. 

And within the porch, a little more 

Removed beyond the evening chill, 

The father sat, and told them tales 

Of wrecks in the great September gales, 

Of pirates coasting the Spanish Main, 

And ships that never came back again, 

The chance anci change of a sailor's life, 

Want and plenty, rest and strife, 

His roving fancy, like the wind, 

That nothing can stay and nothing can bind, 



And the magic charm of foreign lands, 

With shadows of palms, and shining sands, 

Where the tumbling surf, 

O'er the coral reefs of Madagascar, 

Washes the feet of the swarthy Lascar, 

As he lies alone atid asleep on the turf. 

And the trembling maiden held her breath 

At the tales of that awful, pitiless sea, 

With all its terror and mystery, 

The dim, dark sea, so like unto death, 

That divides and yet unites mankind ! 

And whenever the old man paused, a gleam 

From the bowl of his pipe would awhile illume 

The silent group in the twilight gloom, 

And thoughtful faces, as in a dream ; 

And for a moment one might mark 

What had been hidden by the dark, 

That the head of the maiden lay at rest, 

Tenderly, on the young man's breast ! 

Day by day the vessel grew, 

With timbers fastened strong and true, 

Stemson and keelson and sternson-knee, 

Till, framed with perfect symmetry, 

A skeleton ship rose up to view ! 

And around the bows and along the side 

The heavy hammers and mallets plied, 

Till after'many a week, at length, 

Wonderful for form and strength, 

Sublime in its enormous bulk. 

Loomed aloft the shadowy hulk ! 

And around it columns of smoke, upwreathing, 

Rose from the boiling, bubbling, seething 

Caldron, that glowed, 

And overflowed 



THE BUILDING 


OF THE SHIP. 103 


With the black tar, heated for the sheathing. 


The ocean old, 


And amid the clamors 


Centuries old, 


Of clattering hammers, 


Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled. 
Paces restless to and fro, 


He who listened heard now and then 


The song of the master and his men : — 


[Jp and down the sands of gold. 


" Build me straight, O worthy Master, 


His beating heart is not at rest ; 


Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel, 


And far and wide, 


That shall laugh at all disaster, 


With ceaseless flow, 


And with wave and whirlwind wrestle ! " 


His beard of snow 




Heaves with the heaving of his breast. 


With oaken brace and copper band, 


He waits impatient for his bride. 


Lay the rudder on the sand, 


There she stands, 


That, like a thought, should have control 


With her foot upon the sands. 


Over the movement of the whole; 


Decked with flags and streamers gay, 


And near it the anchor, whose giant hand 


In honor of her marriage day. 


"Would reach down and grapple with the land, 


Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending, 


And immovable and fast 


Round her like a veil descending, 


Hold the great ship against the bellowing blast! 


Ready to be 


And at the bows an image stood, 


The bride of the gray old sea. 


By a cunning artist carved in wood, 




With robes of white, that far behind 


On the deck another bride 


Seemed to be fl uttering in the wind. 


Is standing by her lover's side. 


It was not shaped in a classic mould, 


Shadows from the flags and shrouds, 


Not like a Nymph or Goddess of old, 


Like the shadows cast by clouds, 


Or Naiad rising from the water, 


Broken by many a sunny fleck, 


But modelled from the master's daughter ! 


Fall around them on the deck. 


On many a dreary and misty night, 




'T will be seen by the rays of the signal light, 


The prayer is said, 


Speeding along through the rain and the dark, 


The service read. 


Like a ghost in its snow-white sark, 


The joyous bridegroom bows his head ; 


The pilot of some phantom bark, 


And in tears the good old Master 


Guiding the vessel, in its flight, 


Shakes the brown hand of his son, 


By a path none other knows aright ! 


Kisses'his daughter's glowing cheek 


Behold, at last, 


In silence, for he cannot speak, 


Each tall and tapering mast 


And ever faster 


Is swung into its place ; 


Down his own the tears begin to run. 


Shrouds and stays 


The worthy pastor — 


Holding it firm and fast ! 


The shepherd of that wandering flock, 




That has the ocean for its wold, 


Long ago, 


That has the vessel f( r its fold. 


In the deer-haunted forests of Maine, 


Leaping ever from rock to rock — 


When upon mountain and plain 


Spake, with accents mild and clear, 


Lay the snow, 


Words of warning, words of cheer, 


They fell, — those lordly pines ! 


But tedious to the bridegroom's ear. 


Those grand, majestic pines ! 


He knew the chart 


'Mid shouts and cheers 


Of the sailor's heart. 


The jaded steers, 


All its pleasures and its griefs, 


Panting beneath the goad, 


All its shallows and rocky reefs, 


Dragged down the weary, winding road 


All those secret current-, that flow 


Those captive kings so straight and tall, 


With such resistless undertow, 


To be shorn of their streaming hair, 


And lift and drift, with terrible force, 


And, naked and bare. 


The will from its moorings and its course. 


To feel the stress and the strain 


Therefore he spake, and thus said he : — 


Of the wind and the reeling main, 


" Like unto ships far off at sea, 


Whose roar 


Outward or homeward bound, are we. 


Would remind them forte vermore 


Before, behind, and all around, 


Of their native forests they should not see 


Floats and swings the horizon's bound, 


again. 


Seems at its distant rim to rise 




And climb the crystal wall of the skies, 


And everywhere 


And then again to turn and sink. 


The slender, graceful spars 


As if we could slide from its outer brink. 


Poise aloft in the air, 


Ah ! it is not the sea, 


And at the mast-head, 


It is not the -sea that sinks and shelves, 


White, blue, and red, 


But ourselves 


A flag unrolls the stripes and stars. 


That rock and rise 


Ah ! when the wanderer, lonely, friendless, 


With endless and uneasy motion, 


In foreign harbors shall behold 


Now touching the very skies, 


That flag unrolled 


Now sinking into the depths of ocean. 


'T will be as a friendly hand 


Ah ! if our souls but poise and swing 


Stretched out from his native land, 


Like the compass in its brazen ring, 


Filling his heart with memories sweet and 


Ever level and ever true 


endless ! 


To the toil and the task we have to do, 




We shall sail securely, and safely reach 


All is finished ! and at length 


The Fortunate Isles, on whose shining beach 


Has come the bridal day 


The sights we see, and the sounds we hear, 


Of beauty and of strength. 


Will be those of joy and not of fear ! " 


To-day the vessel shall be launched ! 




With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched, 


Then the Master, 


And o'er the bay, 


With a gesture of command, 


Slowly, in all his splendors dight, 


Waved his hand ; 


The great sun rises to behold the sight. 


And at the word, 



104 



CITRYSAOR. 




With one exulting, joyous bound, 
She leaps into the ocean's arms. 



Loud and sudden there was heard, 

All around them and below, 

The sound of hammers, blow on blow, 

Knocking away the shores and spurs. 

And see ! she stirs ! 

She starts, — she moves, — she seems to feel 

The thrill of life along her keel, 

And, spurning with her foot the ground, 

With one exulting, joyous bound, 

She leaps into the ocean's arms ! 

And lo ! from the assembled crowd 

There rose a shout, prolonged and loud, 

That to the ocean seemed to say, 

" Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray, 

Take her to thy protecting arms, 

With all her youth and all her charms ! " 

How beautiful she is ! How fair 

She lies within those arms, that press 

Her form with many a soft caress 

Of tenderness and watchful care ! 

Sail forth into the sea, O ship ! 

Through wind and wave, right onward steer ! 

The moistened eye, the trembling lip, 

Are not the signs of doubt or fear. 

Sail forth into the sea of life, 
O gentle, loving, trusting wife, 
And safe from all adversity 
Upon the bosom of that sea 
Thy comings and thy goings be ! 
For gentleness and love and trust 
Prevail o'er angry wave and gust ; 



And in the wreck of noble lives 
Something immortal still survives ! 

Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State ! 

Sail on, O Union, strong and great ! 

Humanity with all its fears, 

With all the hopes of future years, 

Is hanging breathless on thy fate ! 

We know what Master laid thy keel. 

What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, 

Who made each mast, and sail, and rope, 

What anvils rang, what hammers beat, 

In what a forge and what a heat 

Were shaped the anchors of thy hope ! 

Fear not each sudden sound and shock, 

'T is of the wave and not the rock ; 

'T is but the flapping of the sail, 

And not a rent made by the gale ! 

In spite of rock and tempest's roar, 

In spite of false lights on the shore, 

Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea ! 

Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee, 

Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, 

Our faith triumphant o'er our fears, 

Are all with thee, — are ail with thee ! 



CHRYSAOR. 

Just above yon sandy bar, 

As the day grows fainter and dimmer, 
Lonely and iovely, a single star 

Lights the air with a dusky glimmer. 



THE SECRET OF THE SEA.— SIR HUMPHREY GILBERT. 



105 



Into the ocean faint and far 


But in the fisherman's cottage 


Falls the trail of its golden splendor, 


There shines a ruddier light, 


And the gleam of that single star 


And a little face at the window 


Is ever refulgent, soft, and tender 


Peers out into the night. 


Chrysaor, rising out of the sea. 


Close, close it is pressed to the window, 


Showed thus glorious and thus emulous, 


As if those cbil".ish eyes 


Leaving the arms of Callirrhoe, 


Were looking into the darkness, 


Forever tender, soft, and tremulous 


To see some form arise. 


Thus o'er the ocean faint and far 


And a woman's waving shadow 


Trailed the gleam of his falchion brightly ; 


Is passing to and fro, 


Is it a God, or is it a star 


Now rising to the ceiling, 


That, entranced, I gaze on nightly ! 


Now bowing and bending low. 




What tale do the roaring ocean, 





And the night -wind, bleak and wild, 




As they beat at the crazv casement, 




Tell to that little child ? 


THE SECRET OF THE SEA. 






And why do the roaring ocean, 


Ah ! what pleasant visions haunt me 


And the night-wind, wild and bleak, 


As I gaze upon thi sea ! 


As they beat at the heart of the mother, 


All the old romantic legends, 


Drive the color from her cheek ? 


AJ1 my dreams, come back to me. 




Sails of silk and ropes of sandal, 




Such as gleam in ancient lore ; 




And the singing of the sailors, 




And the answer from the shore ! 






SIR HUMPHREY GILBERT. 


Most of all, the Spanish ballad 




Haunts me oft, and tarries long, 


SorTnwAnn with fleet of ice 


Of the noble Count Arnaldos 


Sailed the corsair Death ; 


And the sailor's mystic song. 


Wild and fast blew the blast, 




And the east-wind was his breath. 


Like the long waves on a sea-beach, 




Where the sand as silver shines, 


His lordly ships of ice 


With a soft, monotonous cadence, 


Glisten in the sun ; 


Flows its unrhymed lyric lines ; — 


On each side, like pennons wide, 




Flashing crystal streamlets run. 


Telling how the Count Arnaldos, 




Witli his hawk upon his hand, 


His sails of white sea-mist 


Saw a fair and stately galley, 


Dripped with silver rain ; 


Steering onward to the land ; — 


But where he passed there were cast 




Leaden shadows o'er the main. 


How he heard the ancient helmsman 




Chant a song so wil 1 and clear, 


Eastward from Campobello 


That the sailing sea-bird slowly 


Sir Humphrey Gilbert sailed ; 


Poised upon the mast to hear, 


Three days or more seaward he bore, 




Then, alas ! the land-wind failed. 


Till his soul was full of longing 




And he cried, with impulse strong, — 


Alas ! the land-wind failed. 


" Helmsman ! for the love of heaven, 


And ice-cold grew the night ; 


Teach me, too, that wondrous song ! " 


And nevermore, on sea or shore, 




Should Sir Humphrey see the light. 


" Wouldst thou," — so the helmsman answered, 




"Learn the secret of the sea ? 


He sat upon the deck, 


Only those who brave its dangers 


The Book was in his hand ; 


Comprehend its mystery ! " 


" Do not fear ! Heaven is as near," 




He said, " by w T ater as by land ! " 


In each sail that skims the horizon, 




In each landward-blowing breeze, 


In the first watch of the night, 


I behold that stately galley, 


Without a signal's sound, 


Hear those mournful melodies ; 


Out of the sea, mysteriously, 




The fleet of Death rose ail around. 


Till my soul is full of longing 




For the secret of the sea, 


The moon and the evening star 


And the heart of the great ocean 


Were hanging m the shrouds ; 


Sends a thrdling pulse through me. 


Every mast as it passed, 




Seemed to rake the passing clouds. 




They grappled with their prize, 






At midnight black and cold ! 




As of a rock was the shock ; 


TWILIGHT. 


Heavily the ground-swell rolled. 


The twilight is sad and cloudy, 


Southward through day and dark, 
They drift in close embrace, 


The wind blows wild and free, 


And like the wings of sea-birds 


With mist and rain, o' er the open main ; 


Flash the white caps of the sea. 


Yet there seems no change of place. 



106 



THE LIGHTHOUSE.— THE FIRE OF DRIFTWOOD. 



Southward, forever southward, 
They drift through dark and day ; 

And like a dream, in the Gulf -stream 
Sinking, vanish all away. 



THE LIGHTHOUSE. 

The rocky ledge runs far into the sea, 
And on its outer point, some miles away, 

The Lighthouse lifts its massive masonry, 
A pillar of fire by night, of cloud by day. 

Even at this distance I can sec the tides, 
Upheaving, break unheard along its base, 

A speechless wrath, that rises and subsides 
In the white lip and tremor of the face. 

And as the evening darkens, lo ! how bright, 
Through the deep purple of the twilight air, 

Beams forth the sudden radiance of its light 
With strange, unearthly splendor in the glare ! 

Not one alone ; from each projecting cape 
And perilous reef along the ocean's verge, 

Starts into life a dim, gigantic shape, 

Holding its lantern o'er the restless surge. 

Like the great giant Christopher it stands 
Upon the brink of the tempestuous wave, 

Wading far out among the rocks and sands, 
The night o'ertaken mariner to save. 



And ihe great ships sail outward and return, 
Bending and bowing o'er the billowy swells, 

And ever joyful, as they see it burn, 
They wave their silent welcomes and farewells. 



They come forth from the darkness, and their 
sails 

Gleam for a moment only in the blaze, 
And eager faces, as the light unveils, 

Gaze at the tower, and vanish while they gaze. 

The mariner remembers when a child, 

On his first voyage, he saw it fade and sink , 

And when, returning from adventures wild, 
He saw it rise again o'er ocean's brink. 



Steadfast, serene, immovable, the same 

Year after year, through all the silent night 

Burns on forevermore that quenchless flame, 
Shines on that inextinguishable light ! 

It sees the ocean to its bosom clasp 

The rocks and sea-sand with the kiss of peace 
It sees the wild winds lift it in their grasp, 

And hold it up, and shake it like a fleece. 

The startled waves leap over it ; the storm 
Smites it with all the scourges of the rain, 

And steadily against its solid form 

Press the great shoulders of the hurricane. 

The sea-bird wheeling round it, with the din 
Of wings and winds and solitary cries, 

Blinded and maddened by the light within, 
Dashes himself against the glare, and dies. 

A new Prometheus, chained upon the rock, 
Still grasping in his hand the fire of Jove, 



It does not hear the cry, nor heed the shock, 
But hails the mariner with words of love. 

" Sail on ! " it says, " sail on, ye stately ships ! 

And with your floating bridge the ocean span ; 
Be mine to guard this light from all eclipse, 

Be yours to bring man nearer unto man ! " 



THE FIRE OF DRIFT-WOOD. 

DEVEREUX FARM, NEAR MARBLEHEAD. 

We sat within the farm-house old, 
Whose windows, looking o'er the bay, 

Gave to the sea-breeze, damp and cold, 
An easy entrance, night and day. 

Not far away we saw the port, 

The strange, old-fashioned, silent town, 
The lighthouse, the dismantled fort, 

The wooden houses, quaint and brown. 

We sat and talked until the night, 
Descending, filled the little room ; 

Our faces faded from the sight, 
Our voices only broke the gloom. 

We spake of many a vanished scene, 
Of what we once had thought and said, 

Of what had been, and might have been, 
And who was changed, and who was dead 

And all that fills the hearts of friends, 
When first they feel, with secret pain, 

Their lives thenceforth have separate ends, 
And never can be one again ; 

The first slight swerving of the heart, 
That words are powerless to express, 

And leave it still unsaid in part, 
Or say it in too great excess. 

The very tones in which we spake 

Had something strange, I could but mark ; 

The leaves of memory seemed to make 
A mournful rustling in the dark. 

Oft died the words upon our lips, 

As suddenly, from out the fire 
Built of the wreck of stranded ships, 

The flames would leap and then expire, 

And, as their splendor flashed and failed, 
We thought of wrecks upon the main, 

Of ships dismasted, that were hailed 
And sent no answer back again. 



The windows, rattling in their frames, 

The ocean, roaring up the beach, 
The gusty blast, the bickering flames, 

All mingled vaguely in our speech ; 

Until they made themselves a part 
Of fancies floating through the brain, 

The long-lost ventures of the heart, 
That send no answers back again. 

O flames that glowed ! O hearts that yearned ! 

They were indeed too much akin, 
The drift-wood fire without that burned, 

The thoughts that burned and glowed within. 



RESIGNATION.- S AND OF THE DESERT IN AN HOUR-GLASS. 



'107 



BY THE FIRESIDE. 



RESIGNATION. 

Tiiere is no flock, however watched and tended, 

But one dead lamb is there ! 
There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, 

But has one vacant chair ! 

The air is full of farewells to the dying, 

And mournings for the dead ; 
The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, 

Will not be comforted ! 

Let us be patient ! These severe afflictions 

Not from the ground arise, 
But oftentimes celestial benedictions 

Assume this dark disguise. 

We see but dimly through the mists and vapors ; 

Amid these earthly damps, 
What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers 

May be heaven's distant lamps. 

There is no Death ! What seems so is transition ; 

This life of mortal breath 
Is but a suburb of the life elysian, 

Whose portal we call Death. 

She is not dead, — the child of our affection, — 

But gone unto that school 
Where she no longer needs our poor protection, 

And Christ himself doth rule. 



In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, 

By guardian angals led, 
Safe frem temptation, safe from sin's pollution, I 

She lives, whom we call dead. 

Day after day we think what she is doing 

In those bright realms of air, 
Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, 

Behold her grown more fair. 

Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken 

The bond which nature gives, 
Thinking that our remembrance, though un- 
spoken, 

May reach her where she lives. 

Not as a child shall we again behold her ; 

For when with raptures wild 
In our embraces we again enfold her, 

She will not be a child ; 

But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion, 

Clothed with celestial grace ; 
And beautiful with all the soul's expansion 

Shall Ave behold her face. 

And though at times impetuous with emotion 

And anguish long suppressed. 
The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean, 

That cannot be at rest, — 

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling 

We may not wholly stay ; 
By silence sanctifying, not concealing, 

The grief that must have way. 



THE BUILDERS. 

Alt, are architects of Fate, 

Working in these walls of Time ; 

Some with massive deeds and great, 
Some with ornaments of rhyme. 



Nothing useless is, or low ; 

Each thing in its place is best ; 
And what seems but idle show 

Strengthens and supports the rest. 

For the structure that we raise, 
Time is with materials filled ; 

Our to-days and yesterdays 
Are the blocks with which we build. 

Truly shape and fashion these ; 

Leave no yawning gaps between , 
Think not. because no man sees, 

Such tilings will remain unseen. 

In the elder days of Art, 

Builders wrought with greatest care 
Each minute and unseen part ; 

For the Gods see everywhere. 

Let us do our work as well, 
Both the unseen and the seen ; 

Make the house, where Gods may dwell, 
Beautiful, entire, and clean. 

Else our lives are incomplete. 
Standing in these walls of Time, 

Broken stairways, v. here the feet 
Stumble as they seek to climb. 

Build to-day, then, strong and sure, 
With a him and ample base; 

And ascending and secure 
Shall to-morrow find its place. 

Thus alone can we attain 

To those turrets, where the eye 

Sees the world as one vast plain. 
And one boundless reach of sky. 



SAND OF THE DESERT IN AN HOUR- 
GLASS. 

A handful of red sand, from the hot clime 

Of Arab -deserts brought, 
Within this glass becomes the spy of Time, 

The minister of Thought. 

How many weary centuries has it been 

About those deserts blown ! 
How many strange vicissitudes has seen, 

How many histories known ! 

Perhaps the camels of the Ishmaelite 

Trampled and passed it o'er, 
When into Egypt from the patriarch's sight 

His favorite son they bore. 

Perhaps the feet of Moses, burnt and bare, 

Crushed it beneath their tread ; 
Or Pharaoh's flashing wheels into the air 

Scattered it as thej r sped ; 

Or Mary, with the Christ of Nazareth 

Held close in her caress. 
Whose pilgrimage of hope and love and faith 

Illumed the wilderness ; 

Or anchorites beneath Engaddi's palms 

Pacing the Dead Sea bead:. 
And singing slow their old Armenian psalms 

In half -articulate speech ; 



108 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 



Or caravans, that from Bassora's gate 

With westward steps depart ; 
Or Mecca's pilgrims, confident of Fate, 

And resolute in heart ! 

These have passed over it, or may have passed ! 

Now in this crystal tower 
Imprisoned by some curio as hand at last, 

It counts the passing hour. 

And as I gaze, these narrow walls expand ; 

Before my dreamy eye 
Stretches the desert with its shifting sand, 

Its unimpeded sky. 

And borne aloft by the sustaining blast, 

This little golden thread 
Dilates into a column high and vast, 

A form of fear and dread. 

And onward, and across the setting sun, 

Across the boundless plain, 
The column and its broader shadow run, 

Till thought pursues in vain. 

The vision vanishes ! These walls again 

Shut out the lurid sun, 
Shut out the hot, immeasurable plain ; 

The half-hour's sand is run ! 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 

Black shadows fall 
From the lindens tall, 
That lift aloft their massive wall 
Against the southern sky ; 



And from the realms 
Of the shadowy elms 
A tide-like darkness overwhelms 
The fields that round us lie. 

But the night is fair, 
And everywhere 
A warm, soft vapor fills the air, 
And distant sounds seem near ; 

And above, in the light 
Of the star-lit night, 
Swift birds of passage wing their flight 
Through the dewy atmosphere. 

I hear the beat 
Of their pinions fleet, 
As from the k,nd of snow and sleet 
They seek a southern lea. 

I hear the cry 
Of their voices hign 
Falling dreamily through the sky, 
But their forms I cannot see. 

O, say not so ! 
Those sounds that blow 
In murmurs of delight and woe 
Come not from wings of birds. 

They are the throngs 
Of the poet's songs, 

Murmurs of pleasures, and pains, and wrongs, 
The sound of winged words. 

This is the cry 
Of souls, that high 
On toiling, beating pinions, fly, 
Seeking a warmer clime. 

From their distant flight 
Through realms of lignt 
It falls into our world of night, 

With the mumuring sound of rhyme. 




I saw the nursery windows wide open to the air. 



THE OPEN WINDOW. - 


-PEGASUS IN POUND. 109 


THE OPEN WINDOW. 


But not for this their revels 




The jovial monks forbore, 


TflB old house by the lindens 


For they cried, kl Fill high the goblet ! 


Stood silent in the shade, 


We must drink to one Saint more ! " 


And on the gravelled pathway 




The light and shadow played. 




I saw the nursery windows 




Wide open to the air ; 




But the faces of the children, 


GASPAR BECERRA 


They were no longer there. 






Bv his evening fire the ar i-t 


The large Newfoundland house-dog 


Pondered o'er his secret shame ; 


Was standing by the door ; 


Baffled, weary, and disheartened, 


He looked for his little playmates, 


Still he mused, and dreamed of fame. 


Who would return no more. 






'T was an image of the Virgin 


They walked not under the lindens. 


That had tasked his utmost skill ; 


They played not in the hall ; 


But, alas ! his fair ideal 


But shadow, and silence, and sadness 


Vanished and escaped him still. 


Were hanging over all. 






From a distant Eastern inland 


The birds sang in the branches, 


Hal the precious wood been brought ; 


With sweet, familiar tone ; 


Day and night the anxious master 


But the voices of the children 


At his toil untiring wrought ; 


Will be heard in dreams alone ! 






Till, discouraged and desponding, 


And the boy that walked beside me, 


Sat he now in shadows deep, 


He could not understand 


And the day's humiliation 


Why closer in mine, ah ! closer, 


Found oblivion in sleep. 


I pressed his warm, soft hand ! 






Then a voice cried, " Rise, master ! 




From the burning brand of oak 




Shape the thought that .stirs within thee ! " 




And the staitled artist woke, — 


KING WITLAF'S DRINKING-HORN. 






Woke, and from the smoking embers 


Witi.af, a king of the Saxons, 


Seized and quenched the glowing wood; 


Ere yet his last he breathed, 


And therefrom he carved an image, 


To the merry monks of Croyland 


And he saw that it was good. 


His drinking-horn bequeathed, — 






thou sculptor, painter, poet ! 


That, whenever they sat at their revels, 


Take this lesson to thy heart : 


And drank from the golden bowl, 


That is best which lieth Dearest ; 


They might remember the donor, 


Shape from that thy work of art. 


And breathe a prayer for his soul. 




So sat they once at Christmas, 





And bade the goblet pass ; 




In their beards the red wine glistened 




Like dew-drops in the grass. 


PEGASUS IN POUND. 


They drank to the soul of Witlaf, 


Once into a quiet village. 


They drank to Christ the Lord, 


Without hasto and without heed, 


And to each of the Twelve Apostles, 


In the golden prime of morning, 


Who had preached his holy word. 


Strayed the poet's winged steed. 


They drank to the Saints and Martyrs 


It was Autumn, and incessant 


Of the dismal days of yore, 


Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves, 


And as soon as the horn was empty 


And, like living coals, the apples 


They remembered one Saint more. 


Burned among the withering leaves. 


And the reader droned from the pulpit, 


Loud the clamorous bell was ringing 


Like the murmur of many bees, 


From its belfry gaunt and grim; 


The legand of good Saint Guthlac, 


'T was the daily call to labor, 


And Saint Basil's homilies ; 


Not a triumph meant for him. 


Till the great bells of the convent, 


Not the less he saw the landscape, 


From their prison in the tower, 


In its gleaming vapor veiled ; 


Guthlac and Bartholomieus, 


Not the less he breathed the odors 


Proclaimed the midnight hour. 


That the dying leaves exhaled. 


And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney, 


Thus, upon the v'llage common, 


And the Abbot bowed his head, 


By the school-boys he w r as fonnd ; 


And the flamelets flapped and flickered, 


And the wise men, in their wisdom, 


But the Abbot was stark and dead. 


Put him straightway into pound. 


Yet still in his pallid fingers 


Then the sombre village crier. 


He clutched the golden bowl, 


Ringing loud his brazen bell, 


In which, like a pearl dissolving, 


Wandered down the street proclaiming 


Had sunk and dissolved his soul. 


There was an estray to sell 



110 TEGNER'S DRAPA.— THE SINGERS. 


And the curious country people, 


Hceder, the blind old God, 


Rich and poor, and young and old, 


Whose feet are shod with silence, 


Came in haste to see this wondrous 


Pierced through that gentle breast 


Winged steed, with mane of gold. 


With his sharp spear, by fraud 




Made of the misletoe, 


Thus the day passed, and the evening 


The accursed misletoe ! 


Fell, with vapors cold and dim ; 




But it brought no food nor shelter, 


They laid him in his ship, 


Brought no straw nor stall, for him. 


With horse and harness, 




As on a funeral pyre. 


Patiently, and still expectant, 


Odin placed 


Looked he through the wooden bars, 


A ring upon his finger, 


Saw the moon rise o'er the landscape, 


And whispered in his ear. 


Saw the tranquil, patient stars; 






They launched the burning ship ! 


Till at length the bell at midnight 


It floated far away 


Sounded from its dark abode, 


Over the misty sea, 


And, from out a neighboring farm-yard, 


Till like the sun it seemed, 


Loud the cock Alectryon crowed. 


Sinking beneath the waves. 




Balder returned no more ! 


Then, with nostrils wide distended, 




Breaking from his iron chain, 


So perish the old Gods ! 


And unfolding far his pinions, 


But out of the sea of Time 


To those stars he soared again. 


Rises a new land of song. 




Fairer than the old; 


On the morrow, when the village 


Over its meadows green 


Woke to all its toil and care, 


Walk the young bards and sing. 


Lo ! the strange steed had departed, 




And they knew not when nor where. 


Build it again, 




O ye bards, 


But they found, upon the greensward 


Fairer than before ! 


Where his struggling hoofs had trod, 


Ye fathers of the new race, 


Pure and bright, a fountain flowing 


Feed upon morning dew, 


From the hoof-marks in the sod. 


Sing the new Song of Love ! 


From that hour, the fount unfailing 


The law of force is dead ! 


Gladdens the whole region round, 


The law of love prevails ! 


Strengthening all who drink its waters, 


Thor, the thun derer, 


While it soothes them with its sound. 


Shall rule the earth no more, 




No more, with threats, 




Challenge the meek Christ. 




Sing no more, 




O ye bards of the North, 


" 


Of Vikings and of Jails ! 


TEGNERS DRAPA. 


Of the days of Eld 




Preserve the freedom only, 


I heard a voice, that cried, 


Not the deeds of blood ! 


" Balder the Beautiful 


, 


Is dead, is dead ! " 





And through the misty air 




Passed like the mournful cry 


SONNET. 


Of sunward sailing cranes. 






ON MRS. KEMBLE'S READINGS FROM SHAKE- 


I saw the pallid corpse 


SPEARE. 


Of the dead sun 




Borne through the Northern sky. 


precious evenings ! all too swiftly sped ! 


Blasts from Niffeiheim 


Leaving us heirs to amplest heritages 


Lifted the sheeted mists 


Of all the best thoughts of the greatest sages, 


Around him as he passed. 


And giving tongues unto the silent dead ! 




How our hearts glowed and trembled as she read, 


And the voice forever cried, 


Interpreting by tones the wondrous pages 


"Balder the Beautiful 


Of the great poet who foreruns the ages, 


Is dead, is dead ! " 


Anticipating all that shall be said ! 


And died away 


happy Reader ! having for thy text 


Through the dreary night, 


The magic book, whose Sibylline leaves have 


In accents of despair. 


caught 




The rarest essence of all human thought ! 


Balder the Beautiful, 


happy Poet ! by no critic vext ! 


God of the summer sun, 


How must thy listening spirit now rejoice 


Fairest of all the Gods ! 

Light from his forehead beamed, 


To be interpreted by such a voice ! 


Runes were upon his tongue, 




As on the warrior's sword. 




All things in earth and air 


THE SINGERS. 


Bound were by magic spell 




Never to do him harm ; 


God sent his Singers upon earth 


Even the plants and stones ; 


With songs of sadness and of mirth, 


All save the misletoe, 


That they might touch the hearts of men, 


The sacred misletoe ! 


And bring them back to heaven again. 



SUSPIRIA.— THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTEL-CUILLE. 



Ill 



The first, a youth, with soul of fire, 


Take them, Grave ! and let them lie 


Held in his hand a golden lyre ; 


Folded upon thy narrow shelves, 


Through groves he wandered, and by streams, 


As garments by the soul laid by, 


Playing the music of our dreams. 


And precious only to our.-elves ! 


The second, with a bearded face, 


Take them, great Eternity ! 


Stood singing in the market-place. 


Our little life is but a gust 


And stirred with accents deep and loud 


That bends the branches of thy tree, 


The hearts of all the listening crowd. 


And trails its blossoms in the dust ! 


A gray old man, the third and last, 




Sang in cathedrals dim and vast, 






While the majestic organ rolled 




Contrition from its mouths of gold. 






HYMN 


And those who heard the Singers three 
Disputed which the best might be ; 


FOR MY BROTIIEP'S ORDINATION. 


For still their music seemed to start 


Christ to the young man said : " Yet one thing 


Discordant echoes in each heart. 


more; 




If thou wouldst perfect be, 


But the great Master said, "I see 


Sell all thou hast and give it to the poor, 


No best in kind, but in degree ; 


And come and follow me!" 


I gave a various gift to each, 




To charm, to strengthen, and to teach. 


Within this temple Christ again, unseen, 




Those sacred words hath said, 


" These are the three great chords of might, 


And his invisible hands to-day have been 


And he whose ear is tuned aright 


Laid on a young man's head. 


Will hear no discord in the three, 




But the most perfect harmony." 


And evermore beside him on his way 




The unseen Christ shall move, 




That he may lean upon his arm and say, 




" Dost thou, dear Lord, approve ! " 




Beside him at the marriage feast shall be, 




To make the scene more fair ; 




Beside him in the dark Gethsemane 


SUSPIRIA. 


Of pain and midnight prayer. 


TAKEthem, Death ! and bear away 


holy trust ! endless sense of rest ! 


Whatever thou canst call thine own ! 


Like the beloved John 


Thine image, stamped upon this clay, 


To lay his head upon the Saviour's breast, 


Doth give thee that, but that alone ! 


And thus to journey on ! 



THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTEL-CUILLE. 

FROM THE GASCON OF JASMIN. 

Only the Lowland tongue of Scotland might 
Rehearse this little tragedy aright; 
Let me attempt it with an English quill : 
And take, Reader, for the deed the will. 



At the foot of the mountain height 

"Where is perched Castel-Cudle, 
When the apple, the plum, and the almond tree 

In the plain below were growing white, 

This is the song one might perceive 
On a Wednesday morn of Saint Joseph's Eve : 

" The roads should blossom, the roads should 

bloom, 
So fair a bride shall leave her home ! 
Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay, 
So fair a bride shall pass to-day ! ' ' 

This old Te Deum, rustic rites attending, 
Seemed from the clouds descending ; 
When lo ! a merry company 

Of rosy. village girls, clean as the eye, 
Each one with her attendant swain, 



Came to the cliff, all singing the same strain ; 
Resembling there, so near unto the sky. 
Rejoicing angels, that kind Heaven has sent 
For their delight and our encouragement. 

Together blending, 

And soon descending 

The narrow sweep 

Of the hillside steep, 

They wind aslant 

Towards Saint Amant, 

Through leafy alleys 

Of verdurous valleys 

With merry sallies 

Singing their chant : 

"The roads should blossom, the roads should 

bloom, 
So fair a bride shall leave her home ! 
Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay, 
So fair a bride shall pass to-day ! " 



112 



THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTEL-CUILLE. 



It is Baptiste, and his affianced maiden, 
With garlands for the bridal laden ! 

The sky was blue ; without one cloud of gloom, 
The sun of March was shining brightly, 

And to the air the freshening wind gave lightly 
Its breathings of perfume. 

When one beholds the dusky hedges blossom, 
A rustic bridal, ah ! how sweet it is ! 

To sounds of joyous melodies, 
That touch with tenderness the trembling bosom, 
A band of maidens 
Gayly frolicking, 
A band of j'oungsters 
Wildly rollicking ! 
Kissing, 
Caressing, 
With fingers pressing, 

Till in the veriest 
Madness of mirth, as they dance, 
They retreat and advance, 

Trying whose laugh shall be loudest and 
merriest ; 
While the bride, with roguish eyes, _ 
Sporting with them, now escapes and cries . 
"• Those who catch me 
Married verily 
This year shall be ! " 

And all pursue with eager haste, 
And all attain what they pursue. 
And touch her pretty apron fresh and new, 
And the linen kirtle round her waist. 

Meanwhile, whence comes it that among 
These youthful maidens fresh and fair, 
So joyous, with such laughing air, 
Baptiste stands sighing, with silent tongue ? 
And yet the bride is fair and young ! 

Is it Saint Joseph would say to us all, 

That love, o'er-hasty, precedeth a fall ? 
O no ! for a maiden frail, I trow, 
Never bore so lofty a brow ! 

What lovers ! they give not a single caress ! 

To see them so careless and cold to-day, 
These are grand people, one would say. 

What ails Baptiste ? what grief doth him oppress ? 

It is, that, half-way up the hill, 
In yon cottage, by whose walls 
Stand the cart-house and the stalls, 
Dwelleth the blind orphan still, 
Daughter of a veteran old ; 
And you must know, one year ago, 
That Margaret, the young and tender, 
Was the village pride and splendor, 
And Baptiste her lover bold. 
Love, the deceiver, them ensnared ; 
For them the altar was prepared ; 
But alas ! the summer's blight, 
The dread disease that none can stay, 
The pestilence that walks by night, 
Took the young bride's sight away. 

All at the father's stern command was changed ; 
Their peace was gone, but not their love es- 
tranged. 
Wearied at home, erelong the lover fled ; 

Returned but three short days ago, 

The golden chain they round him throw, 

He is enticed, and onward led 

To marry Angela, and yet 

Is thinking ever of Margaret. 

Then suddenly a maiden cried, 
"Anna, Theresa, Mary, Kate ! 
Here comes the cripple Jane ! " And by a foun- 
tain's side 
A woman, bent and gray with years, 
Under the mulberry-trees appears, 



And all towards her run. as fleet 
As had they wings upon their feet. 

It is that Jane, the cripple Jane, 
Is a soothsayer, wary and kind. 
She telleth fortunes, and none complain. 
She promises one a village swain, 
Another a happy wedding-day, 
And the bride a lovely boy straightway. 
All comes to pass as she avers ; 
She never deceives, she never errs. 

But for this once the village seer 
Wears a countenance severe, 

And from beneath her eyebrows thin and white 
Her two eyes flash like cannons bright 
Aimed at the bridegroom in waistcoat blue, 
Who, like a statue, stands in view ; 
Changing color, as well he might, 
When the beldame wrinkled and gray 
Takes the young bride by the hand, 
And, with the t,p of her reedy wand ' 
Making the sign of the cross, doth say : — 
"Thoughtless Angela, beware ! 
Lest, when thou weddest this false bride- 
groom, 
Thou diggest for thyself a tomb ! " 

And she was silent ; and the maidens fair 

Saw from each eye escape a swollen tear ; 

But on a little streamlet silver-clear, 
What are two drops of turbid rain ? 
Saddened a moment, the bridal train 
Resumed the dance and song again ; 

The bridegroom only was pale with fear ; — 
And down green alleys 
Of verdurous valleys, 
With merry sallies, 
They sang the refrain : — 

"The roads should blossom, the roads should 

bloom, 
So fair a bride shall leave her home ! 
Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay, 
So fair a bride shall pass to-day ! " 



II. 



And by suffering worn and weary, 
But beautiful as some fair angel yet, 
Thus lamented Margaret, 
In her cottage lone and dreary : — 

" He has arrived ! arrived at last ! 
Yet Jane has named him not these three days 
past; 

Arrived ! yet keeps aloof so far ! 
And knows that of my night he is the star ! 
Knows that long months I wait alone, benighted, 
And count the moments since he went away ! 
Come ! keep the promise of that happi< r day, 
That I may keep the faith to thee 1 pligl ted ! 
What joy have 1 without thee ? what delfght ? 
Grief wastes my life, and makes it misery ; 
Day for the others ever, but for me 

Forever night ! forever night ! 
When he is gone 't is dark ! my soul is sad ! 
I suffer ! O my God! come, make me P.lid. 
When he is near, no thoughts of day intrude : 
Day has blue heavens, but Baptiste has blue 

eyes ! 
Within them shines for me a heaven of love, 
A heaven all happiness, like that above. 

No more of grief ! no more of lassitude ! 
Earth I forget, — and heaven, and all distresses, 
When seated by my side my hand he presses ; 

But when alone, remember all ! 
Where is Baptiste ? he hears not when I call ! 
A branch of ivy, dying on the ground, 

I need some bough to twine around ! 






THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTEL-CUILLE. 



113 



In pity come ! be to my suffering kind ! 
True love, they say, in grief doth more abound ! 
What then— when one is blind ? 

" Who knows ? perhaps I am forsaken ! 
Ah ! woe is me ! then bear me to my grave ! 

God ! what thoughts within me waken ! 
Away ! he will return ! I do but rave ! 

He will return ! I need not fear ! 

He swore it by our Saviour dear ; 

He could not come at his own will ; 

Is weary, or perhaps is ill ! 

Perhaps his heart, in this disguise, 

Prepares for me some sweet surprise ! 
But some one comes ! Though blind, my heart 

ean see ! 
And that deceives me not ! 'tis he ! 'tis he ! " 

And the door ajar is set, 

And poor, confiding Margaret 
Rises, with outstretched arms, but sightless 

eyes ; 
'T is only Paul, her brother, who thus cries :— 

" Angela the bride has passed ! 

1 saw the wedding guests go by ; 

Tell me, my sister, why were we not asked ? 
For all are there but you and I ! " 

" Angela married ! and not send 

To tell her secret unto me ! 

O, speak ! who may the bridegroom be ? " 

"My sister, 'tis Baptiste, thy friend ! " 

A cry the blind girl gave, but nothing said ; 

A milky whiteness spreads upon her cheeks ; 
An icy hand, as heavy as lead, 
Descending, as her brother speaks, 
Upon her heart, that has ceased to beat, 
Suspends awhile its life and heat. 

She stands beside the boy, now sore distressed, 

A wax Madonna as a peasant dressed. 

At length, the bridal song again 
Brings her back to her sorrow and pain. 

" Hark ! the joyous airs are ringing ! 
Sister, dost thou hear them singing ? 
How merrily they laugh and jest ! 
Would we were bidden with the rest ! 
I would don my hose of homespun gray, 
And my doublet of linen striped and gay ; 
Perhaps they will come ; for they do not wed 
Till to-morrow at seven o'clock, it is said! " 
" I know it ! " answered Margaret ; 

Whom the vision, with aspect black as jet, 
Mastered again ; and its hand of ice 

Held her heart crashed, as in a vice ! 

" Paul, be not sad ! 'T is a holiday ; 
To-morrow put on thy doublet gay ! 
But leave me now for a while alone." 
Away, with a hop and a jump, went Paul, 
And, as he whistled along the hall, 
Entered Jane, the crippled crone. 

" Holy Virgin ! what dreadful heat ! 
I am faint, and weary, and out of breath ! 
But thou art cold, — art chill as death ; 
My little friend ! what ails thee, sweet ? " 

"Nothing! I heard them singing home the 
bride ; 
And, as I listened to the song, 
I thought my turn would come erelong, 
Thou knowest it is at Whitsuntide. 
Thy cards forsooth can never lie, 
To me such joy they prophesy. 
Thy skill shall be vaunted far and wide 
When they behold him at my side. 
And poor Baptiste, what sayest thou ? 

It must seem long to him : — me thinks I see him 



8 



Jane, shuddering, her hand doth press : 

"Thy love I cannot all approve ; 
We must not trust too much to happiness ; — 
Go, pray to God, that thou mayest love him 
less ! " 

" The more I pray the more I love ! 
It is no sin, for God is on my side ! " 
It was enough ; and Jane no more replied. 

Now to all hope her heart is barred and cold ; 
But to deceive the beldame old 
She takes a sweet, contented air ; 
Speak of foul weather or of fair, 
At every word the maiden smiles ! 
Thus the beguiler she beguiles ; 

So that, departing at the evening's close, 

She says, " She may be saved ! she nothing 
knows ! " 

Poor Jane, the cunning sorceress ! 
Now that thou wouldst, thou art no prophetess ! 
This morning, in the fulness of thy heart, 

Thou wast so, far beyond thine art ! 



HI. 

Now rings the bell, nine times reverberating, 
And the white daybreak, stealing up the sky, 
Sees in two cottages two maidens waiting, 
How differently ! 

Queen of a day, by flatterers caressed, 

The one puts on her cross and crown. 
Decks with a huge bouquet her bi 
And flaunting, fluttering up and down, 
Looks at herself, and cannot rest. 
The other, blind, within her little room. 
Has neither crown nor flower's perfume ; 

But in their stead for something gropes apart, 
That in a drawer's recess doth lie. 

And, 'neath her bodice of bright scarlet dye, 
Convulsive clasps it to her heart. 

The one, fantastic, light as air, 

'Mid kisses ringing, 

And joyous singing, 
Forgets to say her morning prayer ! 

The other, with cold drops upon her brow. 

Joins her two hands, and kneels upon the floor, 
And whispers, as her brother opes the door, 
' l O God ! forgive me now ! " 

And then the orphan, young and blind, 

Conducted by her brother's hand, 

Towards the church, through paths un- 

scanned, 
With tranquil air, her way doth wind. 

Odors of laurel, making her faint and pale, 
Round her at times exhale. 

And in the sky as yet no sunny ray, 
But brumal vapors gray . 

Near that castle, fair to see. 
Crowded with sculptures old, in every part, 

Marvels of nature and of art. 

And proud of its name of high degree, 

A little chapel, almost bare 

At the base of the rock, is builded there ; 

All glorious that it lifts aloof. 

Above each jealous cottage roof. 
Its sacred summit, swept by autumn gales, 

And its blackened steeple high in air. 

Round which the osprey screams and sails. 

" Paul, lay thy noisy rattle by ! " 
Thus Margaret said. "Where are we? we 
ascend ! " 

" Yes ; seest thou not our journey's end ? 
Hearest not the osprey from the belfry cry ? 



114 



A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 



T\ie hideous bird, that brings ill luck, we know ! 

Dost thou remember when our father said, 
The night we watched beside his bed, 
1 O daughter, I am weak and low ; 

Take care of Paul ; 1 feel that 1 am dying ! ' 

And thou, and he, and I, all fell to crying ? 

Then on the roof the osprey screamed aloud ; 

And here they brought oar' father in his shroud. 

Taere is his grave ; there stands the cross we set ; 

Why dost thou clasp me so, dear Margaret ? 
Come in ! The bride will be here soon : 

Thou tremblest ! O my God ! thou art going to 
swoon ! " 

She could no more, — the blind g':rl, weak and 

weary ! 
A voice seemed crying from that grave so dreary, 
" What wouldst thou do, my daughter ? "—and 
she started, 
And quick recoiled, aghast, faint-hearted , 
But Paul, impatient, urges evermore 
Her steps towards the open door ; 
And when, beneath her feet, the unhappy maid 
Crushes the laurel near the house immortal, 
And with her head, as Paul talks on again, 
Touches the crown of filigrane 
Suspended from the low-arched portal, 
No more restrained, no more afraid, 
She walks, as for a feast arrayed, 
And in the ancient chapel's sombre night 
They both are lost to sight. 

At length the bell, 
With booming sound, 
Sands forth, resounding round, 
Its hymeneal peal o'er rock and down the dell. 
It is broad day, with sunshine and with rain ; 
And yet the guests delay not long, 
For soon arrives the bridal train, 
And with it brings the village throng. 

In sooth, deceit maketh no mortal gay, 
For lo ! Baptiste on this triumphant day, 
Mute as an idiot, sad as y ester-morning, 
Thinks only of the beldame's words of warning. 

And Angela thinks of her cross, I wis ; 
To be a bride is all ! The pretty lisper 
Feels her heart swell to hear all round her whis- 
per, 
" How beautiful ! how beautiful she is ! " 

But she must calm that giddy head, 

For already the Mass is said ; 

At the holy table stands the priest ; 
The wedding ring is blessed ; Baptiste receives it ; 
Ere on the finger of the bride he leaves it. 

He must pronounce one word at least ! 
'Tis spoken ; and sudden at the groomsman's side 
" 'Tis he ! " a well-known voice has cried. 
And while the wedding guests all hold their 

breath. 
Opes the confessional, and the blind girl, see*! 
"Baptiste," she said, u since thou hast wished 

my death, 
As holy water be my blood for thee ! " 
And calmly in the air a knife suspended ! 
Doubtless her guardian angel near attended, 

For anguish did its work so well, 

That, ere the fatal stroke descended, 
Lifeless she fell ! 

At eve, instead of bridal verse, 
The De Prof undis filled the air ; 
Decked with flowers a simple hearse 
To the churchyard forth they bear ; 



Village girls in robes of snow 
Follow, weeping as they go ; 
Nowhere was a smile that day, 
No, ah no ! for each one seemed to say : — 

" The road should mourn and be veiled in gloom, 
So fair a corpse shall leave its home ! 
Should mourn and should weep, ah, well-away ! 
So fair a corpse shall pass to-day ! " 



A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 

FROM THE NOEI BOUEGUIGNON DE GUI BAKOZAI. 

I hear along our street 
Pass the minstrel throngs ; 
Hark ! they play so sweet, 
On their hautboys, Christmas songs ! 
Let us by the fire 
Ever higher 
Sing them till the night expire ! 

In December ring 
Every day the chimes ; 
Loud the gleemen sing 
In the streets their merry rhymes. 
Let us by the fire 
Ever higher 
Sing them till the night expire. 

Shepherds at the grange, 
Where the Babe was born, 
Sang, with many a change, 
Christmas carols until morn. 
Let us by the lire 
Ever higher 
Sing them till the night expire ! 

These good people sang 
Songs devout and sweet ; 
While the rafters rang, 
There they stood with freezing feet. 
Let us by the fire 
Ever higher 
Sing them till the night expire. 

Nuns in frigid cells 
At this holy tide, 
For want of something else, 
Christmas songs at times have tried. 
Let us by the fire 
Ever higher 
Sing them till the night expire ! 

Washerwomen old, 
To the sound they beat, 
Sing by rivers cold, 
With uncovered heads and feet. 
Let us by the fire 
Ever higher 
Sing them till the night expire. 

Who by the fireside stands 
Stamps his feet and sings ; 
But he who blows his hands 
Not so gay a carol brings. 
Let us by the fire 
Ever higher 
Sing them till the night expire ! 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



115 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 




There he sung of Hiawatha. 



INTRODUCTION. 

SHOULD you ask me, whence these stories ? 

Whence these legends and traditions, 

With the odors of the forest, 

With the dew and damp of meadows, 

With the curling smoke of wigwams, 

With the rushing of great rivers, 

With their frequent repetitions, 

And their wild reverberations, 

As of thunder in the mountains ? 

I should answer, I should tell you, 
"From the forests and the prairies, 
From the great lakes of the Northland, 
From the land of the Ojibways, 
From the land of the Dacotahs, 
From the mountains, moors, and fenlands, 
Where the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
Feeds among the reeds and rushes. 
I repeat them as I heard them 
From the lips of Nawadaha, 
The musician, the sweet singer." 

Should you ask where Nawadaha 
Found these songs, so wild and wayward, 
Found these legends and traditions, 

I should answer, I should tell you, 

II In the bird's-nests of the forest, 
In the lodges of the beaver, 

In the hoof-prints of the bison, 
In the eyry of the eagle ! 

" All the wild-fowl sang them to him, 
In the moorlands and the fen-lands, 
In the melancholy marshes ; 
Chetowaik, the plover, sang them, 



Mahng, the loon, the wild-goose, Wawa, 
The blue heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
And the grouse, the Mushkodasa ! 

If still further you should ask me, 
Saying, "Who was Nawadaha ? 
Tell us of this Nawadaha," 
I should answer your inquiries 
Straightway in such words as follow. 

" In the Vale of Tawasentha, 
In the green and silent valley, 
By the pleasant water-courses, 
Dwelt the singer Nawadaha. 
Round about the Indian village 
Spread the meadows and the corn-fields, 
And beyond them stood the fore-t, 
Stood the groves of singing pine-trees, 
Green in Summer, white in Winter, 
Ever sighing, ever singing. 

" And the pleasant water-courses, 
You could trace them through the valley, 
By the rushing in the Spring-time, 
By the alders in the Summer, 
By the white fog in the Autumn, 
By the black line in the Winter ; 
And beside them dwelt the singer, 
In the vale of Tawasentha, 
In the green and silent valley. 

1 1 There he sang of Hiawatlja, 
Sang the Song of Hiawatha, 
Sang his wondrous birth and being, 
How he prayed and how he fasted, 
How he lived, and toiled, and suffered, 
That the tribes of men might prosper, 
[ That he might advance his people ! " 



116 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



Ye who love the haunts of Nature, 
Love the sunshine of the meadow, 
Love the shadow of the forest, 
Love the wind among the branches, 
And the rain-shower and the snow-storm, 
And the rushing of great rivers 
Through their palisades of pine-trees, 
And the thunder in the mountains, 
Whose innumerable echoes 
Flap like eagles in their eyries ; — 
Listen to these wild traditions, 
To this Song of Hiawatha ! 

Ye who love a nation's legends, 
Love the ballads of a people, 
That like voices from afar off 
Call to us to pause and listen, 
Speak in tones so plain and childlike, 
Scarcely can the ear distinguish 
Whether they are sung or spoken ; — 
Listen to this Indian Legend, 
To this Song of Hiawatha ! 

Ye whose hearts are fresh and simple, 
Who have faith in God and Nature, 
Who believe, that in all ages 
Every human heart is human, 
That in even savage bosoms 
There are longings, yearnings, strivings 
For the good they comprehend not, 
That the feeble hands and helpless, 
Groping blindly in the darkness, 
Touch God's right hand in that darkness 
And are lifted up and strengthened ; — 
Listen to this simple story, 
To this Song of Hiawatha ! 

Ye, who sometimes, in your rambles 
Through the green lanes of the country, 
Where the tangled barberry-bushes 
Hang their tufts of crimson berries 
Over stone walls gray with mosses, 
Pause by some neglected graveyard*, 
For a while to muse, and ponder 
On a half -effaced inscription, 
Written with little skill of song-craft, 
Homely phrases, but each letter 
Full of hope and yet of heart-break, 
Full of all the tender pathos 
Of the Here and the Hereafter ; — 
Stay and read this rude inscription, 
Read this Song of Hiawatha ! 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 
L 

THE PEACE-PIPE. 

On the Mountains of the Prairie, 
On the great Red Pipe-stone Quarry, 
Gitche Manito, the mighty, 
He the Master of Life, descending, 
On the red crags of the quarry 
Stood erect, and called the nations, 
Called the tribes of men together. 

From his footprints flowed a river, 
Leaped into the light of morning, 
O'er the precipice plunging downward 
Gleamed like Ishkoodah, the comet. 
And the Spirit, stooping earthward, 
With his finger on the meadow 
Traced a winding pathway for it, 
Saying to it, "Run in this way ! " 

From the red stone of the quarry 
With his hand he broke a fragment, 
Moulded it into a pipe-head, 
Shaped and fashioned it with figures ; 
From the margin of the river 
Took a long reed for a pipe-stem, 



With its dark green leaves upon it ; 
Filled the pipe with bark of willow, 
With the bark of the red willow ; 
Breathed upon the neighboring forest, 
Made its great boughs chafe together, 
Till in flame they burst and kindled ; 
And erect upon the mountains, 
Gitche Manito, the mighty. 
Smoked the calumet, the Peace-Pipe, 
As a signal to the nations. 

And the smoke rose slowly, slowly, 
Through the tranquil air of morning, 
First a single line of darkness, 
Then a denser, bluer vapor, 
Then a snow-white cloud unfolding, 
Like the tree-tops of the forest, 
Ever rising, rising, rising, 
Till it touched the top of heaven, 
Till it broke against the heaven, 
And rolled outward all around it. 

From the Vale of Tawasentha, 
From the Valley of Wyoming, 
From the groves of Tuscaloosa, 
From the far-off Rocky Mountains, 
From the Northern lakes and rivers 
All the tribes beheld the signal, 
Saw the distant smoke ascending, 
The Pukwana of the Peace-Pipe. 

And the Prophets to the nations 
Said : ' ' Behold it, the Pukwana ! 
By this signal from afar off, 
Bending like a wand of willow, 
Waving like a hand that beckons, 
Gitche Manito, the mighty, 
Call the tribes of men together, 
Call the warriors to his council ! " 

Down the rivers, o'er the prairies, 
Came the warriors of the nations, 
Came the Delawares and Mohawks, 
Came the Choctaws and Camanches, 
Came the Shoshonies and Blackfeet, 
Came the Pawnees and Omahas, 
Came the Mandans and Dacotahs, 
Came the Hurons and Ojibways, 
All the warriors drawn together 
By the signal of the Peace-Pipe, , 
To the Mountains of the Prairie, 
To the great Red Pipe-stone Quarry. 

And they stood there on the meadow, 
With their weapons and their war-gear, 
Painted like the leaves of Autumn, 
Painted 'like the sky of morning, 
Wildly glaring at each other ; 
In their faces stern defiance, 
In their hearts the feuds of ages, 
The hereditary hatred, 
The ancestral thirst of vengeance. 

Gitche Manito, the mighty, 
The creator of the nations, 
Looked upon them with compassion, 
With paternal love and pity ; 
Looked upon their wrath and wrangling • 
But as quarrels among children, 
But as i'euds and fights of children ! 

Over them he stretched his right hand, 
To subdue their stubborn natures, 
To allay their thirst and fever, 
By the shadow of his right hand ; 
Spake to them with voice majestic 
As the sound of far-off waters, 
Falling into deep abysses, 
Warning, chiding, spake in this wise : — 

" O my children ! my poor children ! 
Listen to the words of wisdom, 
Listen to the words of warning, 
From the lips of the Great Spirit, 
From the Master of Life, who made you, 

"I have given you lands to hunt in, 
I have given you streams to fish in, 
1 have given you bear and bison, 
I have given you roe and reindeer, 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



117 



I have given you brant and beaver, 
Filled the marshes full of wild-fowl, 
Filled the rivers full of fishes ; 
Why then are you not contented ? 
Why then will you hunt each other ? 

' ' I am weary of your quarrels, 
Weary of your wars and bloodshed, 
Weary of your prayers for vengeance, 
Of your wranglings, and dissensions ; 
All your strength is in your union, 
All your danger is in discord ; 
Therefore be at peace henceforward, 
And as brothers live together. 

" I will send a Prophet to you, 
A Deliverer of the nations, 
Who shall guide you and shall teach you, 
Who shall toil and suffer with you. 
If you listen to his counsels, 
You will multiply and prosper ; 
If his warnings pass unheeded, 
You will fade away and perish ! 

" Bathe now in the stream before you, 
Wash the war-paint from your faces, 
Wash the blood-stains from your fingers, 
Bury your war-clubs and your weapons, 
Break the red stone from this quarry, 
Mould and make it into Peace-Pipes, 
Take the reeds that grow beside you, 
Deck them with your brightest feathers, 
Smoke the calumet together, 
And as brothers live henceforward ! " 

Then upon the ground the warriors 
Threw their cloaks and shirts of deerskin, 
Threw their weapons and their war-gear, 
Leaped into the rushing river, 
Washed the war-paint from their faces. 
Clear above them flowed the water, 
Clear and limpid from the footprints 
Of the Master of Life descending ; 
Dark below them flowed the water, 
Soiled and stained with streaks of crimson, 
As if blood were mingled with it ! 

From the river came the warriors, 
Clean and washed from all their war-paint 
On the banks their clubs they buried, 
Buried all their warlike weapons. 
Gitche Manito, the mighty, 
The Great Spirit, the creator, 
Smiled upon his helpless children ! 

And in silence all the warriors 
Broke the red stone of the quarry, 
Smoothed and formed it into Peace-Pipes, 
Broke the long reeds by the river, 
Decked them with their brightest feathers. 
And departed each one homeward, 
While the Master of Life, ascending. 
Through the opening of cloud-curtains, 
Through the doorways of the heaven, 
Vanished from before their faces, 
In the smoke that rolled around him, 
The Pukwana of the Peace-Pipe ! 



II. 



THE FOUR WINDS. 

"Honor be to Mudjekeewis ! " 
Cried the warriors, cried the old men, 
When he came in triumph homeward 
With the sacred Belt of Wampum, 
From the regions of the North-Wind, 
From the kingdom of Wabasso, 
From the land of the White Rabbit. 

He had stolen the Belt of Wampum 
From the neck of Mishe-Mokwa, 
From the Great Bear of the mountains, 
From the terror of the nations, 
As he lay asleep and cumbrous 
On the summit of the mountains, 
Like a rock with mosses on it, 



Spotted brown and gray with mosses. 

Silently he stole upon him, 
Till the red nails of the monster 
Almost touched him, almost scared him, 
Till the hot breath of his nostrils 
Warmed the hands of Mudjekeewis, 
As he drew the Belt of Wampum 
Over the round ears, that heard not, 
Over the small eyes, that saw not, 
Over the long nose and nostrils, 
The black muffle of the nostrils, 
Out of which the heavy breathing 
Warmed the hands of Mudjekeewis. 

Then he swung aloft his war-club, 
Shouted loud and long his war-cry, 
Smote the mighty Mishe-Mokwa 
In the middle of the forehead, 
Right between the eyes he smote him. 

With the heavy blow bewildered, 
Rose the Great Bear of the mountains ; 
But his knees beneath htm trembled, 
And he whimpered like a woman, 
As he reeled and staggered forward, 
As he sat upon his haunches ; 
And the mighty Mudjekeewis, 
Standing fearlessly before him, 
Taunted him in loud derision, 
Spake disdainfully in this wise : — 

14 Hark you. Bear ! you are a coward, 
And no Brave, as you pretended ; 
Else you would not cry and whimper 
Like a miserable woman ! 
Bear ! you know our tribes are hostile, 
Long have been at war together ; 
Now you find that we are strongest, 
You go sneaking in the forest, 
You go hiding in the mountains ! 
Had you conquered me in battle 
Not a groan would I have uttered ; 
But you, Bear ! sit here and whimper, 
And disgrace your tribe by crying, 
Like a wretched Shaugodaya, 
Like a cowardly old woman ! " 

Then again he raised his war-club, 
Smote again the Mishe-Mokwa 
In the middle of his forehead, 
Broke his skull, as ice is broken 
When one goes to fish in Winter. 
Thus was slain the Mishe-Mokwa, 
He the Great Bear of the mountains, 
He the terror of the nations. 

" Honor be to Mudjekeewis ! " 
With a shout exclaimed the people, 
I " Honor be to Mudjekeewis ! 
Henceforth he shall be the West-Wind, 
And hereafter and forever 
Shall he hold supreme dominion 
Over all the winds of heaven. 
Call him no more Mudjekeewis, 
Call him Kabeyun, the West-Wind ! " 

Thus was Mudjekeewis chosen 
Father of the Winds of Heaven. 
For himself he kept the West- Wind, ■ 
Gave the others to his children ; 
Unto Wabun gave the East- Wind, 
Gave the South to Shawandasee, 
And the North-Wind, wild and cruel, 
To the fierce Kabibonokka. 

Young and beautiful was Wabun ; 
He it was who brought the morning, 
He it was whose silver arrows 
Chased the dark o'er hill and valley ; 
He it was whose cheeks were painted 
With the brightest streaks of crimson, 
And whose voice awoke the village, 
Called the deer, and called the hunter. 

Lonely in the sky was Wabun ; 
Though the birds sang gayly to him, 
Though the wild-flowers of the meadow 
Filled the air with odors for him, 
Though the forest and the rivers 



118 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



Sang and shouted at his coming, 
Still h:s heart was sad within him, 
For he was alone in heaven. 

But one morning, gazing earthward, 
While the village still was sleeping, 
And the fog lay on the river, 
L ke a ghost, that goes at sunrise, 
He beheld a maiden walking 
All alone upon a meadow, 
Gathering water-flags and rushes 
By a river in the meadow, 

Every morning, gazing earthward, 
Still the first thing he beheld t_..re 
Was her blue eyes looking at him, 
Two blue lakes among the rushes. 
And he loved the lonely maiden, 
W r ho thus waited for his coming ; 
For they. w r ere both solitary, 
She on earth and he in heaven. 

And he wooed her with caresses, 
Wooed her with his smile of sunshine, 
With his flattering words he wooed her, 
With his sighing and his singing, 
Gentlest whispers in the branches, 
Softest music, sweetest odors, 
Till he drew her to his bosom, 
Folded in his robes of crimson, 
Till into a star he changed her, 
Trembling still upon his bosom ; 
And forever in the heavens 
They are seen together walking, 
Wabun and the Wabun- Annung, 
Wabun and the Star of Morning. 

But the fierce Kabibonokka 
Has his dwelling among icebergs, 
In the everlasting snow-drifts, 
In the kingdom of Wabasso, 
In the land of the White Rabbit. 
He it was whose hand in Autumn 
Painted all the trees with scarlet, 
Stained the leaves with red and yellow 
He it was who sent the snow-flakes, 
Sifting, hissing through the forest, 
Froze the ponds, the lakes, the rr. ers, 
Drove the loon and sea-gull southward, 
Drove the cormorant and curlew 
To their nests of sedge and sea-tang 
In the realms of Shawondasee. 

Once the fierce Kabibonokka 
Issued from his lodge of snow-drifts, 
From his home among the icebergs. 
And his hair, with snow besprinkled, 
Streamed behind him like a river, 
Like a black and wintry river, 
As he howled and hurried southward, 
Over frozen lakes and moorlands. 

There among the reeds and rushes 
Foand he Shingebis, the diver, 
Trailing strings of fish behind him, 
O'er the frozen fens and moorlands, 
Lingering still among the moorlands, 
Though his tribe had long departed 
To the land of Shawondasee. 

Cried the fierce Kabibonokka, 
" Who is this that dares to brave me ? 
Dares to stay in my dominions, 
When the Wawa has departed, 
When the wild-goose has gone southward, 
And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
Long ago departed southward ? 
1 will go into his wigwam, 
I will put his smouldering fire out ! " 

And at night Kabibonokka 
To the lodge came wild and wailing, 
Heaped the snow in drifts about it, 
Shouted down into the smoke-flue, 
Shook the lodge-poles in his fury, 
Flapped the curtain of the door- way. 
Shingebis, the diver, feared not, 
Shingebis, the diver, cared not ; 
Four great logs had he for firewood, 



One for each moon of the winter. 
And for food the fishes served him. 
By his blazing fire he sat there. 
Warm and merry, eating, laughing, 
Singing, " O Kabibonokka, 
You are but my fellow-mortal ! " 

Then Kabibonokka entered, 
And though Shingebis, the diver, 
Felt his presence by the coldness, 
Felt his icy breath upon him, 
Still he did not cease his singing, 
Still he did not leave his laughing, 
Only turned the log a little, 
Only made the fire burn brighter, 
Made the sparks fly up the smoke-flue. 

From Kabibonokka's forehead, 
From his snow T -besprinkled tresses, 
Drops of svveat fell fast and heavy, 
Making dints upon the ashes, 
As along the eaves of lodges, 
As from drooping boughs of hemlock, 
Drips the melting snow in spring-time, 
Making hollows in the snow-drifts. 

Till at last he rose defeated, 
Could not bear the heat and laughter, 
Could not bear the merry singing, 
But rushed headlong through the dooiwaj', 
Stamped upon the crusted snow-drifts, 
Stamped upon the lakes and rivers, 
Made the snow upon them harder, 
Made the ice upon them thicker, 
Challenged Shingebis, the diver, 
To come forth and wrestle with him, 
To come forth and wrestle naked 
On the frozen fens and moorlands. 

Forth went Shingebis, the diver, 
Wrestled all night with the Night- Wind, 
Wrestled naked on the moorlands 
With the fierce Kabibonokka, 
Till his panting breath grew fainter, 
Till his frozen grasp grew feebler, 
Till he reeled and staggered backward, 
And retreated, baffled, beaten, 
To the kingdom of Wabasso, 
To the land of the White Rabbit, 
Hearing still the gusty laughter, 
Hearing Shingebis, the diver, 
Singing, " O Kabibonokka, 
You are but my fellow-mortal ! " 

Shawondasee, fat and lazy, 
Had his dwelling far to southward, 
In the drowsy, dreamy sunshine, 
In the never-ending Summer. 
' He it was who sent the wood-birds, 
Sent the robin, the Opechee, 
Sent the bluebird, the Owaissa, 
Sent the Shawshaw, sent the swallow, 
Sent the wild-goose, Wawa, northward, 
Sent the melons and tobacco, 
And the grapes in purple clusters. 

From his pipe the smoke ascen ling 
Filled the sky with haze and vapor, 
Filled the air with dreamy softness, 
Gave a twinkle to the Water, 
Touched the rugged hills with smoothness, 
Brought the tender Indian Summer 
To the melancholy north-land, 
In the dreary Moon of Snow-shoes. 

Listless, careless Shawondasee ! 
In his life he had one shadow, 
In his heart one sorrow had he. 
Once, as he was gazing northward, 
Far away upon a prairie 
He beheld a maiden standing, 
Saw a tall and slender maiden 
All alone upon a prairie ; 
Brightest green were all her garments, 
Ancl her hair was like the sunshine. 

Day by day he gazed upon her, 
Day by day he sighed with passion, 
Day by day his heart within him 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



119 



Grew more hot with love and longing 

For the maid with yellow tresses. 

Hut he was too fat and lazy 

To bestir himself and woo her ; 

Yes, too indolent and easy 

To pursue her and persuade her. 

So he only gazed upon her, 

Only sat and sighed with passion 

For the maiden of the prairie. 

Till one morning, looking northward, 
He beheld her yellow tresses 
Changed and covered o'er with whiteness, 
Covered as with whitest snow-flakes. 
" Ah ! my brother from the Northland, 
From the kingdom of Wabasso, 
From the land of the White Rabbit ! 
You have stolen the maiden from me, 
You have laid your hand upon her, 
You have wooed an I won my maiden, 
With your stories of the Northland ! " 
Thus the wretched Shawondasee 
Breithed into the air his sorrow ; 
And the South-Wind o'er the prairie 
Wandered warm with sighs of passion, 
With the sighs of Shawondase:.', 
Till the air seemed full of snow-flakes, 
Full of thistle-down the prairie, 
And the maid with hair lik; sunshine 
Vanished from ths sight forever ; 
Never more did Shawondasee 
S3e the maid with yellow tresses ! 

Poor, delude! Shawondasee ! 
'T was no woman that you gazed at, 
'T was no jnaiden that you sighed for, 
'T was the prairie dandelion 
That through all the dreamy Summer 
You had gazed at with such longing. 
You had sighed for with such passion, 
And had puffed away forever, 
Blown into the air with sighing. 
Ah ! deluded Shawondasee ! 

Thus the Four Winds were divided ; 
Thus the sons of Mudjekeewis 
Had their stations in the heavens, 
At the corner of the heavens ; 
For himself the West- Wind only 
Kept the mighty Mudj eke awls. 



III. 



HIAWATHA'S CHILDHOOD. 

DOWNWARD through the evening twilight, 

In the days that are forgotton, 

In the unremembered ages. 

From the full moon fell Nokomis, 

Fell the beautiful Nokomis, 

She a wife, but not a mother. 

She was sporting with her women 
Swinging in a swing of grape-vines, 
Wlien her rival, the rejected, 
Full of jealousy and hatred, 
Cut the leafy swing asunder, 
Cut in twain the twisted grape-vines, 
And Nokomis fell affrighted 
Downward through the evening twilight. 
On the Muskoday, the meadow, 
On the prairie full of blossoms. 
" See ! a star falls ! " said the people ; 
" From the sky a star is falling ! " 

There among the ferns and mosses, 
There among the prairie lilies, 
On the Muskoday, the meadow, 
In the moonlight and the starlight, 
Fair Nokomis bore a daughter. 
And she called her name Wenonah, 
As the first-born of her daughters. 
And the daughter of Nokomis 
Grew up like the prairie lilies, 
Grew a tall and slender maiden, 



With the beauty of the moonlight, 
With the beauty of the starlight. 

And Nokomis warned her orten, 
Saying oft, and oft repeating, 
" O, beware of Mudjekeewis, 
Of the West- Wind, Mudjekeewis ; 
Listen not to what he tells you ; 
Lie not down upon the meadow, 
Stoop not dowii among the lilies, 
Lest the West- Wind come and harm you ! ' 

But she heeded not the warning. 
Heeded not those words of wisdom, 
And the West- Wind came at evening, 
Walking lightly o'er the prairie, 
Whispering to the leaves and blossoms, 
Bending low the flowers and grasses, 
Found the beautiful Wenonah, 
Lying there among the lilies. 
Wooed her wdth his words of sweetness, 
Wooed her with his soft caresses, 
Till she bore a son in sorrow, 
Bore a son of love and sorrow. 

Thus was Lorn my Hiawatha, 
Thus was born the child of wonder ; 
But the daughter of Nokomis, 
Hiawatha's gentle mother, 
In her anguish died deserted 
By the West- Wind, false and faithless, 
By the heartless Mudjekeewis. 

For her daughter, long and ioudly 
Wailed and wept the sad Nokomis ; 
" O that I were dead ! " she murmured, 
" O that I were dead, as thou art 1 
No more work, and no more weeping, 
Wahonowin ! Wahonowin 1 " 

By the shores of Gitche Gumee, 
By the shining Big-Sea- Water, 
Stood the wigwam of Nokomis, 
Daughter of the Moon, Nokomis. 
Dark behind it rose the forest, 
Rose the black and gloomy pine-trees, 
Rose the firs with cones upon tlum ; 
Bright before it beat the water, 
Beat the clear and sunny water, 
Beat the shining Big-Sea- Water. 

There the wrinkled, old Nokomis 
Nursed the little Hiawatha, 
Rocked him in his linden cradle, 
Bedded soft in moss and rushes, 
Safely bound with reindeer sinews ; 
Stilled his fretful wail by saying, 
" Hush ! the Naked Bear will hear thee 1 *' 
Lulled him into slumber, singing, 
" Ewa-yea ! my little owlet ! 
Who is this, that lights the wigwam *? 
With his great eyes lights the wigwam *? 
Ewa-yea ! my little owlet ! " 

Many things Nokomis taught him 
Of the stars that shine in heaven ; 
Showed him Ishkoodah, the comet, 
Ishkoodah, with fiery tresses ; 
Showed the Death-Dance of the spirits. 
Warriors with their plumes and war-clubs, 
Flaring far away to northward 
In the frosty nights of Winter ; 
Showed the broad, white road in heaven, 
Pathway of the ghosts, the shadows. 
Running straight across the heavens, 
Crowded with the ghosts, the shadows. 

At the door on summer e\enings 
I Sat the little Hiawatha ; 
Heard the whispering of the pine-trees, 
Heard the lapping of the water, 
Sounds of music, words of wonder ; 
u Minne-wawa 1 " said the pine-trees, 
" Mudway-aushka ! " said the water. 

Saw the fire-fly, Wah-wah-taysee, 
Flitting through the dusk of evening, 
W r ith the twinkle of its candle 
Lighting up the brakes and bushes, 
And he sang the song of children, 



120 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 




" ! that I were dead," she murmured. 



Sang the song Nokomis taught him : 
" Wah-wah-tajrsee, little fire-fly, 
Little, flitting, white-fire insect, 
Little, dancing, white-fire creature, 
Light me with your little candle, 
Ere upon my bed I lay me, 
Ere in sleep I close my eyelids ! " 

Saw the moon rise from the water 
Rippling, rounding from the water, 
Saw the flecks and shadows on it, 
Whispered, "What is that, Nokomis ?" 
And the good Nokomis answered : 
1 ' Once a warrior, very angry, 
Seized his grandmother, and threw her 
Up into the sky at midnight ; 
Right against the moon he threw her ; 
'T is her body that you see there. ,, 

Saw the rainbow in the heaven, 
In the eastern sky, the rainbow. 
Whispered, " What is that, Nokomis ? " 
And the good Nokomis answered : 
" 'T is the heaven of flowers you see there : 
All the wild-flowers of the forest, 
All the lilies of the prairie, 
When on earth they fade and perish, 
Blossom in that heaven above us." 

When he heard the owls at midnight, 
Hooting, laughing in the forest, 
" What is that ? " he cried in terror ; 
" What is that ? " he said, "Nokomis ? " 
And the good Nokomis answered : 
" That is but the owl and owlet, 
Talking in their native language, 
Talking, scolding at each other." 

Then the little Hiawatha 
Learned of every bird its language, 
Learned their names and all their secrets, 
How they built their nests in Summer, 



Where they hid themselves in Winter, 
Talked with them whene 'er he met them, 
Called them "Hiawatha's Chickens." 

Of all the beasts he learned the language, 
Learned their names and all their secrets, 
How the beavers built their lodges, 
Where the squirrels hid their acorns, 
How the reindeer ran so swiftly, 
Why the rabbit was so timid, 
Talked with them whene 'er he met them, 
Called them "Hiawatha's Brothers." 

Then Iagoo, the great boaster, 
He the marvellous story-teller, 
He the traveller and the talker, 
He the friend of old Nokomis, 
Made a bow for Hiawatha ; 
From a branch of ash he made it, 
From an oak-bough made the arrows, 
Tipped with flint, and winged with feathers, 
And the cord he made of deer-skin. 

Then he said to Hiawatha : 
"Go, my son, into the forest, 
Where the red deer herd together, 
Kill for us a famous roebuck, 
Kill for us a deer with antlers ! " 

Forth into the forest straightway 
All alone walked Hiawatha 
Proudly, with his bow and arrows ; 
And the birds sang round him, o' er him, 
" Do not shoot us, Hiawatha ! " 
Sang the robin, the Opechee, 
Sang the bluebird, the Owaissa, 
" Do not shoot us, Hiawatha ! " 

Up the oak-tree, close beside him, 
Sprang the squirrel, Adjidaumo, 
In and out among the branches, 
Coughed and chattered from the oak-tree, 
Laughed, and said between his laughing, 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



121 



"Do not shoot me, Hiawatha ! "' 

And the rabbit from his pathway 
Leaped aside, and at a distance 
Sat erect upon his haunches, 
Half in fear and half in frolic, 
Saying to the little hunter, 
11 Do not shoot me, Hiawatha ! " 

But he heeded not, nor heard them, 
For his thoughts were with the red deer ; 
On their tracks his eyes were fastened, 
Leading downward to the river, 
To the ford across the river, 
And as one in slumber walked he. 

Hidden in the alder-bushes, 
There he waited till the deer came, 
Till he saw two antlers lifted, 
Saw two eyes look from the thicket, 
Saw two nostrils point to windward, 
And a deer came down the pathway, 
Flecked with leafy light and shadow. 
And his heart within him fluttered. 
Trembled like the leaves above him, 
Like the birch-leaf palpitated, 
As the deer came down the pathway. 

Then, upon one knee uprising, 
Hiawatha aimed an arrow ; 
Scarce a twig moved with his motion, 
Scarce a leaf was stirred or rustled, 
But the wary roebuck started, 
Stamped with all his hoofs together, 
Listened with one foot uplifted, 
Leaped as if to meet the arrow ; 
Ah ! the stinging, fatal arrow, 
Like a wasp it buzzed and stung him ! 

Dead he lay there in the forest, 
By the ford across the river ; 
Beat his timid heart no longer, 
But the heart of Hiawatha 
Throbbed and shouted and exalted. 
As he bore the red deer homeward, 
And Iagoo and Nokomis 
Hailed his coming with applauses. 

From the red deer's hide Nokomis 
Made a cloak for Hiawatha, 
From the red deer's flesh Nokomis 
Made a banquet in his honor. 
All the village came and feasted, 
All the guests praised Hiawatha, 
Called him Strong-Heart, Soan-ge-taha ! 
Called him Loon-Heart, Mahn-go-taysee ! 



IV. 



HIAWATHA AND MUDJEKEEWIS. 

Out of childhood into manhood 
Now had grown my Hiawatha, 
Skilled in all the craft of hunters, 
Learned in all the lore of old men, 
In all youthful sports and pastimes, 
In all "manly arts and labors. 

Swift of foot was Hiawatha ; 
He could shoot an arrow from him, 
And run forward with such fleetness, 
That the arrow fell behind him ! 
Strong of arm was Hiawatha ; 
He could shoot ten arrows upward. 
Shoot them with such strength and swiftness, 
That the tenth had left the bow-string 
Ere the first to earth had fallen ! 

He had mittens, Minjekahwun, 
Magic mittens made of deer-skin ; 
"When upon his hands he wore them, 
He could, smite the rocks asunder. 
He could grind them into powder. 
He had moccasins enchanted, 
Magic moccasins of deer-skin ; 
When he bound them round his ankles, 
When upon his feet he tied them, 
A-t each stride a mile he measured ! 



Much he questioned old Nokomis 
Of his father Mudjekeewis ; 
Learned from her the fatal secret 
Of the beauty of his mother, 
Of the falsehood of his father ; 
And his heart was hot within him, 
Like a living coal his heart was. 
Then he said to old Nokomis, 
" I will go to Mudjekeewis, 
See how fares it with my father. 
At the doorways of the West-Wind, 
At the portals of the Sumet ! " 

From his lodge went Hiawatha, 
Dressed for travel, armed for hunting ; 
Dressed in deer-skin shirt and leggings. 
Richly wrought with quills and wampum; 
On his head his eagle-feathers, 
Round his waist his belt of wampum, 
In his hand his bow of ash-wood, 
Strung with sinews of the reindeer ; 
In his quiver oaken arrows. 
Tipped with jasper, winged with feathers 
With his mittens, Minjekahwun, 
With his moccasins enchanted. 

Warning said the old Nokomis, 
" Go not forth, O Hiawatha ! 
To the kingdom of the West-Wind, 
To the realms of Mudjekeewis, 
Lest he harm you with his magic, 
Lest he kill you with his cunning '. " 

But the fearless Hiawatha 
Heeded not her woman's warning; 
Forth he strode into the forest, 
At each stride a mile he measured ; 
Lurid seemed the sky above him. 
Lurid seemed the earth beneath him, 
Hot and close the air around him, 
Filled with smoke and fiery vapors, 
As of burning woods and prairies. 
For his heart was hot within him, 
Like a living coal his heart was. 

So he journeyed westward, westward, 
; Left the neatest deer behind him, 
Left the antelope and bison ; 
Crossed the rushing Esconaba, 
Crossed the mighty Mississippi, 
Passed the Mountains of the Prairie, 
Passed the land of Crows and Foxes, 
Passed the dwellings of the Blackfeet, 
Came unto the Rocky Mountains, 
To the kingdom of the West-Wind, 
Where upon the gusty summits 
Sat the ancient Mudjekeewis, 
Ruler of the winds of heaven. 

Filled with awe was Hiawatha 
At the aspect of his father. 
On the air about him wildly 
Tossed and streamed his cloudy tresses, 
Gleamed like drifting snow his tresses, 
Glared like Ishkoodah, the comet, 
Like the star with fiery tresses. 

Filled with joy was Mudjekeewis 
When he looked on Hiawatha, 
Saw his youth rise up before him 
In the face of Hiawatha, 
Saw the beauty of Wenonah 
From the grave rise up before him. 

" Welcome ! " snid he, " Hiawatha, 
To the kingdom of the West-Wind ! 
Long have i been waiting for you '. 
Youth is lovely, age is lonely, 
Youth is fiery, age is frosty ; 
You bring back the days departed. 
You bring back my youth of passion, 
And the beautiful Wenonah '. " 

Many days they talked together. 
Questioned, listened, waited, answered ; 
Much the mighty Mudjekeewis 
Boasted of his ancient prowess, 
Of his perilous adventures. 
His indomitable courage, 



122 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



His invulnerable body. 

Patiently sat Hiawatha, 
Listening to his father's boasting ; 
With a smile he sat and listened, 
Uttered neither threat nor menace, 
Neither word nor look betrayed him, 
But his heart was hot within him, 
Like a living coal his heart was. 

Then he said, "0 Mudjekeewis, 
Is there nothing that can harm you ? 
Nothing that you are afraid of V " 
And the mighty Mudjekeewis, 
Grand and gracious in his boasting, 
Answered, saying, " There is nothing, 
Nothing but the black rock yonder, 
Nothing but the fatal Wawbeek ? " 

And he looked at Hiawatha 
With a wise look and benignant, 
With a countenance paternal, 
Looked with pride upon the beauty 
Of his tall and graceful figure, " 
Saying, u O my Hiawatha ! 
Is there anything can harm you ? 
Anything you are afraid of ? " 

But the wary Hiawatha 
Paused awhile, as if uncertain, 
Held his peace, as if resolving, 
And then answered, u There is nothing, 
Nothing but the bulrush yonder, 
Nothing but the great Apukwa ! " 

And as Mudjekeewis, rising, 
Stretched his hand to pluck the bulrush, 
Hiawatha cried in terror. 
Cried in well-dissembled terror, 
" Kago ! kago ! do not touch it ! " 
u Ah, kaween ! " said Mudjekeewis, 
" No. indeed, I will not touch it ! " 

Then they talked of other matters ; 
First of Hiawatha's brothers, 
First of YVabun, of the East- Wind, 
Of the South-W r ind, Shawondasee, 
Of the North, Kabionokka ; 
Then of Hiawatha's mother, 
Of the beautiful Wenonah, 
Of her birth upon the meadow, 
Of her death, as old Nokomis 
Had remembered and related. 

And he cried, " O Mudjekeewis, 
It was you who killed Wenonah, 
Took her young life and her beauty, 
Broke the Lily of the Prairie, 
Trampled it beneath your footsteps ; 
You confess it I you confess it ! " 
And the mighty Mudjekeewis 
Tossed upon the wind his tresses, 
Bowed his hoary head in anguish, 
With a silent nod assented. 

Then up started Hiawatha, 
And with threatening look and gesture 
Laid his hand upon the black rock, 
On the fatal Wawbeek laid it, 
With his mittens, Minjekahwun, 
Rent the jutting crag asunder, 
Smote and crushed it into fragments, 
Hurled LLem madly at his father, 
Tiie remorseful Mudjekeewis, 
For his heart was hot within him, 
Like a living coal his heart was. 

Bat the ruler of the West-Wind 
Blew the fragments backward from him, 
With the breathing of his nostrils, 
With the tempest of his anger, 
Blew them back at his assailant ; 
Seized the bulrush, the Apukwa, 
Dragged it with its roots and fibres 
From the margin of the meadow, 
From its ooze, the giant bulrush ; 
Long and loud laughed Hiawatha ! 
Then began the deadly conflict. 
Hand to hand among the mountains ; 
From his eyrie screamed the eagle, 



The Keneu, the great war-eagle 
Sat upon the crags around them, 
Wheeling flapped his wings above them. 

Like a tall tree in the tempest 
Bent and lashed the giant bulrush ; 
And in masses huge and heavy 
Crashing fell the fatal Wawbeek ; 
Till the earth shook with the tumult 
And confusion of the battle, 
And the air was full of shoutings, 
And the thunder of the mountains, 
Starting, answered, u Baim-wawa!" 

Back retreated Mudjekeewis, 
Bushing westward o'er the mountains, 
Stumbling westward down the mountains, 
Three whole days retreated fighting, 
Still pursued by Hiawatha 
To the doorways of the West- Wind, 
To the portals of the Sunset, 
To the earth's remotest border, 
Where into the empty spaces 
Sinks the sun, as a flamingo 
Drops into her nest at nightfall, 
In the melancholy marshes / 

" Hold ! " at length cried Mudjekeewis, 
"Hold, my son, my Hiawatha ! 
'Tis impossible to kill me, 
For you cannot kill the immoital. 
I have put you to this trial, 
But to know and pro\e your courage ; 
Now receive the prize of valor ! 

" Go back to your home and people, 
Live among them, toil among them, 
Cleanse the earth from all that harms it, 
Clear the fishing-grounds and rivers, 
Slay all monsters and magicians, 
All the Wendigoes, the giants, 
All the serpents, the Kenabecks, 
As I slew the Mishe-Mokwa, 
Slew the Great Bear of the mountains. 

"And at last when Death draws near you, 
When the awful eyes of Pauguk 
Glare upon you in the darkness, 
I will share my kingdom with you, 
Ruler shall you be thenceforward 
Of the Northw r est-wind, Keewaydin, 
Of the home-wind, the Keewaydin." 

Thus was fought that famous battle 
In the dreadful days of Shah-shah, 
In the days long since departed, 
In the kingdom of the West-Wind. 
Still the hunter sees its traces 
Scattered far e'er hill and valley ; 
Sees the giant bulrush growing 
By the ponds and water-courses, 
Sees the masses of the Wawbeek 
Lying still in every valley. 

Homeward now went Hiawatha ; 
Pleasant was the landscape round him, 
Pleasant was the air above him, 
For the bitterness of anger 
Had departed wholly from him, 
From his brain the thought of vengeance, 
From his heart the burning fever. 

Only once his pace he slackened, 
Only once he paused or halted, 
Paused to purchase heads of arrows 
Of the ancient Arrow-maker, 
In the land of the Dacotahs, 
Where the Falls of Minnehaha 
Flash and gleam among the oak-trees, 
Laugh and leap into the valley. 

There the ancient Arrow-maker 
Made his arrow-heads of sandstone, 
Arrow-heads of chalcedony, 
Arrow-heads of flint and jasper, 
Smoothed and sharpened at the edges, 
Hard and polished, keen and costly. 

With him dwelt his dark-eyed daughter, 
Wayward as the Minnehaha, 
With her moods of shade and sunshine, 









THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 123 


Eyes that smiled and f rowncd alternate, 


By the still, transparent water ; 


Feet as rapid as the river, 


Saw the sturgeon, Nahma, leaping. 


Tresses flowing like the water, 


Scattering drops like beads of wampum, 


And as musical a laughter ; 


Saw the yellow perch, the Sahwa, 


And he named her from the river, 


Like a sunbeam in the water, 


From the water-fall he named her, 


Saw the pike, the Maskenozha, 


Minnehaha, Laughing Water. 


And the herring, Okahahwis, 


Was it then for heads of arrows, 


And the Shawgashee. the craw-fish ! 


Arrow-heads of chalcedony, 


" Master of Life ! " he cried, desponding. 


Arrow-heads of flint and jasper. 


" Must our lives depend on these things ': " 


That my Hiawatha halted 


On the fouith day of his fasting 


In the land of the Dacotahs ? 


In his lodge he lay exhausted ; 


Was it not to see the maiden, 


From his couch of leaves and branches 


See the face of Laughing Water, 


Gazing with half-open eyelids. 


Peeping from behind the curtain, 


Full of shadowy dreams and visions, 


Hear the rustling of her garments 


On the dizzy, swimming landscape, 


From behind the waving curtain, 


On the gleaming of the water, 


As one sees the Minnehaha 


On the splendor of the sunset. 


Gleaming, glancing through the branches, 


And he saw a youth approaching. 


As one hears the Laughing Water 


Dressed in garments green and yellow 


From behind its screen of branches ? 


Coming through the purple twilight, 


Who shall say what thoughts and visions 


Through the splendor of the sunset ; 


Fill the fiery brains of young men ? 


Plumes of green bent o'er his forehead, 


Who shall say what dreams of beauty 


And his hair was soft and golden. 


Fdled the heart of Hiawatha ? 


Standing at the open doorway, 


All he told to old Nokomis, 


Long he looked at Hiawatha, 


When he reached the lodge at sunset, 


Looked with pity and compassion 


Was the meeting with his father, 


On his wasted form and features, 


Was his fight with Mudjekeewis ; 


And, in accents like the sighing 


Not a word he said of arrows, 


Of the South-Wind in the tree-tops, 


Not a word of Laughing Water. 


Said he, "0 my Hiawatha ! 




All your prayers are heard in heaven, 




For you pray not like the others ; 




Not for greater skill in hunting, 


V. 


Not for greater craft m fishing, 




Not for triumph in the battle, 


Hiawatha's fasting. 


Nor renown among the warriors, 




But for profit of the people, 


You shall hear how Hiawatha 


For advantage of the nations. 


Prayed and fastad in the forest, 


"From the Master of Life descending, 


Not for greater skill in hunting, 


I, the friend of man, Mondamin, 


Not for greater craft in fishing, 


Come to warn you and instruct you, 


Not for triumphs in the battle, 


How by struggle and by labor 


And renown among the warriors, 


You shall gain what you have prayed for. 


But for profit of the people. 


Rise up from your bed of branches. 


For advantage of the nations. 


Rise, O youth, and wrestle with me ! " 


First he built a lodge for fasting, 


Faint with famine, Hiawatha 


Built a wigwam in the forest, - 


Started from his bed of branches, 


By the shining Big-Sea- Water, 


From the twilight of his wigwam 


In the blithe and pleasant Spring-time, 


Forth into the flush of sunset 


In the Moon of Leaves he built it. 


Came, and wrestled with Mondamin, 


And, with dreams and visions many. 


At his touch he felt new courage 


Seven whole days and nights he fasted. 


Throbbing in his brain and bosom, 


On the first day of his fasting 


Felt new life and hope and vigor 


Through the leafy woods he wander3d ; 


Run through every nerve and fibre. 


Saw the deer start from the thicket, 


So they wrestled there together 


Saw the rabbit in his burrow, 


In the glory of the sunset, 


Heard the pheasant, Bena, drumming, 


And the more they strove and struggled, 


Heard the squirrel, Adjidaumo, 


Stronger still grew Hiawatha ; 


Rattling in his hoard of acorns, 


Till the darkness fell around them, 


Saw the pigeon, the Omeme, 


And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 


Building nests among the pine-trees, 


From her nest among the pine-trees, 


And in flocks the wild goose, Wawa, 


Gave a cry of lamentation. 


Flying to the fen-lands northward, 


Gave a scream of pain and famine. 


'Whirring, wailing far above him. 


" 'Tis enough ! " then said Mondamin, 


" Master of Life ! " he cried, desponding. 


Smiling upon Hiawatha, 


"Must our lives depend on these things ? " 


"But to-morrow, wdien the sun sets, 


On the next day of his fasting 


I will come again to try you." 


By the river's brink he wandered, 


And he vanished, and was seen not ; 


Through the Muskoday, the meadow, 


Whether sinking as the rain sinks, 


Saw the wild rice, Mahnomonee, 


Whether rising as the mists rise, 


Saw the blueberry, Meenahga, 


Hiawatha saw not, knew not, 


And the strawberry, Odahmin, 


Only saw that he had vanished, 


And the gooseberry, Shahbomin, 


Leaving him alone and fainting, 


And the grape-vine, the Bemahgut, 


With the misty lake below him, 


Trailing o'er the alder-branches, 


And the reeling stars above him. 


Filling all the air with fragrance ! 


On the morrow and the next day, 


" Master of Life ! " he cried, desponding, 


When the sun through heaven descending 


"Must our lives depend on these things ? " 


Like a red and burning cinder 


On the third day of his fasting 


From, the hearth of the Great Spirit 


.By the lake he cat and pondered, 


Fell into the western waters, 



124 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



Came Mondamin for the trial, 
For the strife with Hiawatha ; 
Came as silent as the dew comes, 
From the empty air appearing, 
Into empty air returning, 
Taking shape when earth it touches, 
But invisible to all men 
In its coming and its going. 

Thrice they wrestled there together 
In the glory of the sunset, 
Till the darkness fell around them, 
Till the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
From her nest among the pine-trees, 
Uttered her loud cry of famine, 
And Mondamin paused to listen. 

Tall and beautiful he stood there, 
In his garments gceen and yellow ; 
To and fro his plumes above him 
Waved and nodded with his breathing, 
And the sweat of the encounter 
Stood like drops of dew upon him. 

And he cried, ' l O Hiawatha ! 
Bravely have you wrestled with me, 
Thrice have wrestled stoutly with me. 
And the Master of Life, who see us, 
He will give to you the triumph ! " 

Then he smiled, and said : " To-morrow 
Is the lasb day of your conflict, 
Is the last day of your fasting. 
You will conquer and o'ercome me ; 
Make a bed for me to lie in, 
Where the rain may fall upon me, 
Where the sun may come and warm me ; 
Strip these garments, green and yellow, 
Strip this nodding plumage from me, 
Lay me in the earth, and make it 
Soft and loose and light above me. 

11 Let no hand disturb my slumber, 
Let no weed nor worm molest me, 
Let not Kahgahgee, the raven, 
Come, to haunt me and molest me, 
Only come yourself to watch me, 
Till I wake, and start, and quicken, 
Till I leap into the sunshine." 

And thus saying, he departedjL' 
Peacefully slept Hiawatha, 
But he heard the Wawonaissa, 
Heard the whippoorwill complaining, 
Perched upon his lonely wigwam ; 
Heard the rushing Sebowisha, 
Heard the rivulet rippling near him, 
Talking to the darksome forest ; 
Heard the sighing of the branches, 
As they lifted and subsided 
At the passing of the night-wind, 
Heard them, as one hears in slumber 
Far-off murmurs, dreamy whispers : 
Peacefully slept Hiawatha. 

On the morrow came Nokomis, 
On the seventh day of his fasting, 
Came with food for Hiawatha, 
Came imploring and bewailing, 
Lest this hunger should o'ercome him, 
Lest his fasting should be fatal. 

But he tasted not, and touched not, 
Only said to her, "Nokomis, 
Wait until the sun is setting, 
Till the darkness falls around us, 
Till the heron, the Shuh -shuh-gah, 
Crying from the desolate marshes, 
Tells us that the day is ended.'' 

Homeward weeping went Nokomis, 
Sorrowing for her Hiawatha, 
Fearing lest his strength should fail him, 
Lest his fasting should be fatal. 
He meanwhile sat weary waiting 
For the coming of Mondamin, s 

Till the shadows, pointing eastward, 
Lengthened over held and forest, 
Till the sun dropped from the heaven, 
Floating on the waters westward, 



As a red leaf in the Autumn 
Falls and floats upon the water, 
Falls and sinks into its bosom. 

And behold ! the young Mondamin, 
With his soft and shining tresses, 
With his garments green and yellow, 
With his long and glossy plumage, 
Stood and beckoned at the doorway. 
And as one in slumber walking, 
Pale and haggard, but undaunted, 
From the wigwam Hiawatha 
Came and wrestled with Mondamin. 

Round about him spun the landscape, 
Sky and forest reeled together, 
And his strong heart leaped within him, 
As the sturgeon leaps and struggles 
In a net to break its meshes. 
Like a ring of fire around him 
Blazed and flared the red horizon, 
And a hundred suns seemed looking 
At the combat of the wrestlers. 

Suddenly upon the greensward 
All alone stood Hiawatha, 
Panting with his wild exertion, 
Palpitating with the struggle ; 
And before him breathless, lifeless, 
Lay the youth, with hair dishevelled, 
Plumage torn, and garments tattered, 
Dead he lay there in the sunset. 

And victorious Hiawatha 
Made the grave as he commanded, 
Stripped the garments from Mondamin, 
Stripped his tattered plumage from him, 
Laid him in the earth, and made it 
Soft and loose and light above him ; 
And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
From the melancholy moorlands, 
Gave a cry of lamentation, 
Gave a cry of pain and anguish ! 

Homeward then went Hiawatha 
To the lodge of old Nokomis, 
And the seven days of his fasting 
Were accomplished and completed. 
But the place was not forgotten 
Where he wrestled with Mondamin ; 
Nor forgotten nor neglected 
Was the grave where lay Mondamin, 
Sleeping m the rain and sunshine, 
Where his scattered plumes and garments 
Faded in the rain and. sunshine. 

Day by day did Hiawatha 
Go to wait and watch beside it ; 
Kept the dark mould soft above it, 
Kept it clean from weeds and insects, 
Drove away, with scoffs and shoutings, 
Kahgahgee, the king of ravens. 

Till at length a small green feather 
From the earth shot slowly upward, 
Then another and another, 
And before the Summer ended 
Stood the maize in all its beauty, 
With its shining robes about it, 
And its long, soft, yellow tresses ; 
And in rapture Hiawatha 
Cried aloud, ' l It is Mondamin ! 
Yes, the friend of man, Mondamin ! " 

Then he called to old Nokomis 
And Iagoo, the great boaster, 
Showed them where the maize was growing, 
Told them of his wondrous vision, 
Of his wrestling and his triumph, 
Of this new gift to the nations, 
Which should be their food forever. 

And still later, when the Autumn 
Changed the long, green leaves to yellow, 
And the soft and juicy kernels 
Grew like wampum hard and yellow, 
Then the ripened ears he gathered, 
Stripped the withered husks from off them, 
As he once had stripped the wrestler, 
Gave the first Feast of Mondamin, 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



125 



And made known unto the people 
This new gift of the Great Spirit. 

VI. 

HIAWATHA'S FRIENDS. 

Two good friends had Hiawatha, 

Singled out from all the others, 

Bound to him in closest union, 

And to whom he gave the right hand 

Of his heart, in joy and sorrow ; 

Chibiabos, the musician, 

And the very strong man, Kwasind. 

Straight between them ran the pathway, 
Never grew the grass upon it ; 
Singing birds, that utter falsehoods, 
Story-tellers, mischief-makers, 
Found no eager ear to listen, 
Could not breed ill-will between then 
For they kept each other's council, 
Spake with naked hearts together, 
Pondering much and much contriving 
How the tribes of men might prosper. 

Most beloved by Hiawatha 
Was the gentle Chibiabos, 
He the best of all musicians, 
He the sweetest of all singers. 
Beautiful and childlike was he, 
Brave as man is, soft as woman, 
Pliant as a wand of willow, 
Stately as a deer with antlers. 

When he sang the village listened ; 
All the warriors gathered round him, 
All the women came to hear him ; 
Now he stirred their souls to passion, 
Now he melted them to pity. 

From the hollow reeds he fashioned 
Flutes so musical and mellow, 
That the brook, the Sebowisha, 
Ceased to murmur in the woodland, 
That the woodbirds ceased from singing, 
And the squirrel, Adjidaumo, 
Ceased his chatter in the oak-tree, 
And the rabbit, the Wabasso, 
Sat upright to look and listen. 

Yes, the brook, the Sebowisha, 
Pausing, said, u O Chibiabos, 
Teach my waves to flow in music, 
Softly as your words in singing ! " 

Yes, the blue-bird, the Owaissa, 
Envious, said, " O Chibiabos, 
Teach me tones as wild and wayward, 
Teach me songs as full of freazy ! " 

Yes, the robin, the Opeche 
Joyous, said, ' i O Chibiabos, 
Teach me tones as sweet and tender, 
Teach me songs as full of gladness ! " 

And the whippoorwill, Wawonaissa, 
Sobbing, said, "O Chibiabos, 
Teach me tones as melancholy, 
Teach me songs as full of sadness ! " 

All the many sounds of nature 
Borrowed sweetness from his singing ; 
All the hearts of men were softened 
By the pathos of his music ; 
For he sang of peace and freedom, 
Sang of beauty, love, and longing ; 
Sang of death, and life undying 
In the Islands of the Blessed, 
In the kingdom of Ponemah, 
In the land of the Hereafter. 

Very dear to Hiawatha 
Was the gentle Chibiabos, 
He the best of all musicians, 
He the sweetest of all singers ; 
For his gentleness he loved him, 
And the magic of his singing. 

Dear, too, unto Hiawatha 
Was the very strong man, Kwasind, 
He the strongest of all mortals, 



He the mightiest among many ; 
For his very strength he loved him, 
For his strength allied to goodness. 

Idle in his youth was Kwasind, 
Very listless, dull, and dreamy, 
Never played with other children, 
Never fished and never hunted, 
Not like other children was he ; 
But they saw that much he fasted, 
Much his Manito entreated, 
Much besought his Guardian Spirit. 

"Lazy Kwasind !" said his mother, 
' ' In my work you never help me ! 
In the Summer you are roaming 
Idly in the fields and forest ; 
In the Winter you are cowering 
O'er the firebrands in the wigwam ! 
In the coldest days of Winter 
I must break the ice for fishing ; 
With my nets you never help me ! 
At the door my nets are hanging, 
Dripping, freezing with the water ; 
Go and wring them, Yenadizze ! 
Go and dry them in the sunshine !" 

Slowly, from the ashes, Kwasind 
Rose, but made no angry answer ; 
From the lodge went forth in silence, 
Took the nets, that hung together, 
Dripping, freezing at the doorway, 
Like a wisp of straw he wrung them, 
Like a wisp of straw he broke them, 
Could not wring them without breaking, 
Such the strength was in his fingers. 

" Lazy Kwasind ! " said his father, 
" In the hut you never help me ; 
Every bow you touch is broken, 
Snapped asunder every arrow ; 
Yet come with me to the forest, 
You shall bring the hunting homeward." 

Down a narrow pass they wandered, 
Where a brooklet led them onward, 
Where the trail of deer and bison 
Marked the soft mud on the margin, 
Till they found all further passage 
Shut against them, barred securely 
By the trunks of trees uprooted, 
Lying lengthwise, lying crosswise, 
And forbidding further passage. 

11 We must go back," said the old man, 
" O'er these logs we cannot clamber ; 
Not a woodchuck could get through them, 
Not a squirrel clamber o'er them ! " 
And straightway his pipe he lighted, 
And sat down to smoke and ponder. 
But before his pipe was finished, 
Lo ! the path was cleared before him •, 
All the trunks had Kwasind lifted, 
To the right hand, to the left hand, 
Shot the pine-trees swift as arrows, 
Hurled the cedars light as lances. 

" Lazy Kwasind ! " said the young men, 
As they sported in the meadow : 
11 Why stand idly looking at us. 
Leaning on the rock behind you ? 
Come and wrestle with the others, 
Let us pitch the quoit together ! " 

Lazy Kwasind made no answer. 
To their challenge made no answer, 
Only rose, and slowly turning. 
Seized the huge rock in his fingers, 
Tore it from its deep foundation, 
Poised it in the air a moment. 
Pitched it sheer into the river, 
Sheer into the swift Pauwating, 
Where it still is seen in Summer. 

Once as down that foaming river, 
Down the rapids of Pauwating, 
Kwasind sailed with his companions, 
In the stream he saw a beaver, 
Saw Ahmeek, the King of Beavers, 
Struggling with the rushing currents, 



126 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



Rising, sinking in the water. 

Without speaking, without pausing, 
Kwasind leaped into the river, 
Plunged beneath the bubbling surface, 
Through the whirlpools chased the beaver, 
Followed him among the islands, 
Stayed so long beneath the water, 
That his terrified companions 
Cried, k ' Alas ! good-by to Kwasind ! 
We shall never more see Kwasind ! " 
But he reappeared triumphant, 
And upon his shining shoulders 
Brought the beaver, dead and dripping, 
Brought the King of all the Beavers. 

And these two, as I have told you, 
Were the friends of Hiawatha. 
Chibiabos, the musician, 
And the very strong man, Kwasind. 
Long they lived in peace together, 
Spake with naked hearts together. 
Pondering much and much contriving 
How the tribes of men might prosper. 



VII. 

HIAWATHA'S SAILING. 

14 Give me of your bark, O Birch-Tree ! 
Of your yellow bark, O Birch-Tree ! 
Growing by the rushing river, 
Tall and stately in the valley ! 
I a light canoe will build me, 
Build a swift Cheemaun for sailing, 
That shall float upon the river, 
Like a yellow leaf in Autumn, 
Like a yellow water-lily ! 

" Lay aside your cloak, O Birch-Tree ! 
Lay aside your white-skin wrapper, 
Por the Summer-time is coming, 
And the sun is warm in heaven, 
And you need no white-skin wrapper ! " 

Thus aloud, cried Hiawatha 
In the solitary forest, 
By the rushing Taquamenaw, 
When the birds were singing gayly, 
In the Moon of Leave? were singing, 
And the sun, from sleep awaking, 
Started up and said, " Behold me ! 
Geezis, the great Sun, behold me ! " 

And the tree with all its branches 
Rustled in the breeze of morning, 
Saying, with a sigh of patience, 
11 Take my cloak, O Hiawatha !" 

With his knife the tree he girdled ; 
Just beneath its lowest branches, 
Just above the roots, he cut it, 
Till the sap came oozing outward ; 
Down the trunk, from top to bottom, 
Sheer he cleft the bark asunder, 
With a wooden wedge he raised it, 
Stripped it from the trunk unbroken. 

" Give me of your boughs, O Cedar ! 
Of your strong and pliant branches, 
My canoe to make more steady, 
Make more strong and firm beneath me ! " 

Through the summit of the Cedar 
Went a sound, a cry of horror, 
Went a murmur of resistance ; 
But it whispered, bending downward, 
44 Take my boughs, O Hiawatha ! " 

Down he hewed the boughs of cedar, 
Shaped them straightway to a framework, 
Like two bows he formed and shaped them, 
Like two bended bows together. 

44 Give me of your roots, O Tamarack ! 
Of your fibrous roots, O Larch-Tree ! 
My canoe to bind together, 
So to bind the ends together 
That the water may not enter, 
That the river may not wet me ! " 



And the Larch, with all its fibres, 
Shivered in the air of morning, 
Touched his forehead with its tassels, 
Said, with one long sigh of sorrow, 
44 Take them all, O Hiawatha ! " 

From the earth he tore the fibres, 
Tore the tough roots of the Larch-Tree, 
Closely sewed the bark together, 
Bound it closely to the framework. 

41 Give me of your balm, O Fir-Tree ! 
Of your balsam and your resin, 
So to close the seams together 
That the water may not enter, 
That the river may not Avet me ! " 

And the Fir-Tree, tall and sombre, 
Sobbed through all its robes of darkness, 
Rattled like a shore with pebbles, 
Answered wailing, answered weeping, 
41 Take my balm, O Hiawatha! " 

And he took the tears of balsam, 
Took the resin of the Fir-Tree, 
j Smeared therewith each seam and fissure, 
Made each crevice safe from water. 

41 Give me of your quills, O Hedgehog ! 
All your quills, O Kagh, the Hedgehog ! 
I will make a necklace of them, 
Make a girdle for my beauty, 
And two stars to deck her besom ! " 
From a hollow tree the Hedgehog 
With his sleepy eyes looked at him, 
Shot his shining quills, like arrows, 
Saying, with a drowsy murmur, 
Through the tangle of his whiskers, 
k> Take my quills, O Hiawatha ! " 

From the ground the quills he gathered, 
All the little shining arrows, 
Stained them red and blue and yellow, 
With the juice of roots and berries ; 
Into his canoe he wrought them, 
Round its waist a shining girdle. 
Round its bows a gleaming necklace, 
On its breast two stars resplendent. 

Thus the Birch Canoe was builded 
In the valley, by the river, 
In the bosom of the forest ; 
And the forest's life was in it, 
All its mystery and its magic, 
All the lightness of the birch-tree, 
All the toughness of the cedar, 
All the larch's supple sinews ; 
And it floated on the river 
Like a yellow leaf in Autumn, 
Like a yellow water-lily. 

Paddles none had Hiawatha, 
Paddles none he had or needed, 
For his thoughts as paddles served him, 
And his wishes served to guide him ; 
Swift or slow at will he glided, 
Veered to right or left at pleasure. 

Then he called aloud to Kwasind, 
To his friend, the strong man, Kwasind, 
Saying, " Help me clear this river 
Of its sunken logs and sand-bars." 
Straight into the river Kwasind 
Plunged as if he were an otter, 
Dived as if he were a beaver, 
Stood up to his waist in water, 
To his arm-pits in the river, 
Swam and shouted in the river, 
Tugged at sunken logs and branches, 
With his hands he scooped the sand-bars, 
With his feet the ooze and tangle. 

And thus sailed my Hiawatha 
Down the rushing Taquamenaw, 
Sailed through all its bends and windings, 
Sailed through all its deeps and shallows, 
While his friend, the strong man, Kwasind, 
Swam the deeps, the shallows waded. 
Up and down the river went they, 
In and out among its islands, 
Cleared its bed of root and sand-bar, 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



127 



Dragged the dead trees from its channel, 


In his fur the breeze of morning 


Made its passage safe and certain, 


Played as in the prairie grasses. 


Made a pathway for the people, 


On the white sand of the bottom 


From its springs among the mountains, 


Lay the monster Mishe-Nahma, 


To the waters of Pauwating, 


Lay the sturgeon, King of Fishes; 


To the bay of Taquamenaw. 


Through his gills he breathed the water, 




With his fins he fanned and winnowed, 




With his tail he swept the sand-floor. 


VIII 


There he lay in all his armor ; 




On each side a shield to guard him, 


HIAWATHA'S FISHING. 


Platas of bone upon his forehead, 




Down his sides and back and shoulders 


Forth upon the Gitche Gumee, 


Plates of bone with spines projecting ! 


On the shining Big-Sea-Water, 


Painted was he with his war-paints, 


With his fishing-line of cedar, 


Stripes of yellow, red, and azure. 


Of the twisted bark of cedar, 


Spots of brown and spots of sable ; 


Forth to catch the sturgeon Nahma, 


And he lay there on the bottom, 


Mishe-Nahma, King of Fishes, 


Fanning with his fins of purple, 



. 




SP^g^s 



That the birch canoe stood endwise. 



In his birch canoe exulting 
All alone went Hiawatha. 

Through the clear, transparent water 
He could see the fishes swimming 
Far down in the depths below him ; 
See the yellow perch, the Sahwa, 
Like a sunbeam in the water, 
See the Shawgashee, the craw-fish, 
Like a spider on the bottom, 
On the white and sandy bottom, 

At the stern sat Hiawatha, 
With his fishing-line of cedar ; 
In his plumes the breeze of morning 
Pliyed as in the hemlock branches ; 
On the bows, with tail erected, 
Sat the squirrel, Adjidaumo ; 



As above him Hiawatha 

In his birch canoe came sailing, 

With his fishing line of cedar. 

" Take my bait," cried Hiawatha, 
Down into the depths beneath him, 
"Take my bait, O Sturgeon, Nahma ! 
Come up from below the water. 
Let us see which is the stronger ! " 
And lie dropped his line of cedar 
Through the clear, transparent water, 
W r aited vainly for an answer. 
Long sat waiting for an answer, 
And repeating loud and louder, 
" Take my bait, O King of Fishes ! " 

Quiet lay the sturgeon, Nahma, 
Fanning slowly in the water, 



128 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



Looking up at Hiawatha, 

Listening to his call and clamor, 

His unnecessary tumult, 

Till he wearied ot the shouting ; 

And he said to the Kenozha, 

To the pike, the Maskenozha, 

1 k Take the bait of this rude fellow, 

Break the line of Hiawatha ! " 

In his fingers Hiawatha 
Felt the loose line jerk and tighten 
As he drew it in, it tugged so 
That the birch canoe stood endwise, 
Like a birch log in the water, 
With the squirrel, Adjidaumo, 
Perched and frisking on the summit. 

Full of scorn was Hiawatha 
When he saw the fish rise upward, 
Saw the pike, the Maskenozha, 
Coming nearer, nearer to him, 
And he shouted through the water, 
" Esa ! esa ! shame upon you ! 
You are but the pike, Kenozha, 
You are not the fish I wanted, 
You are not the King of Fishes ! " 
Reeling downward to the bottom 
Sank the pike in great confusion, 
And the mighty sturgeon, Nahma, 
Said to Ugudwash, the sun-fish, 
To the bream, with scales of crimson, 
" Take the bait of this great boaster, 
Break the line of Hiawatha U" 

Slowly upward, wavering, gleaming, 
Rose the Ugudwash, the sun-fish, 
Seized the line of Hiawatha, 
Swung with all his weight upon it, 
Made a whirlpool in the water, 
Whirled the birch canoe in circles, 
Round and round in. gurgling eddies, 
Till the circles in the water 
Reached the far-off' sandy beaches, 
Till the water-flags and rushes 
Nodded on the distant margins. 
But when Hiawatha saw him 
Slowly rising through the water, 
Lifting up his disk refulgent, 
Loud he shouted in derision, 
" Esa ! esa ! shame upon you ! 
You are Ugudwash, the sun-fish, 
You are not the fish I wanted, 
You are not the King of Fishes ! " 

Slowly downward, wavering, gleaming, 
Sank the Ugudwash, the sun-fish, 
And again the sturgeon, Nahma, 
Heard the shout of Hiawatha, 
Heard his challenge of defiance 
The unnecessary tumult, 
Ringing far across the water, 

From the white sand of the bottom 
Up he rose with angry gesture, 
Quivering in each nerve and fibre, 
Clashing all his plates of armor, 
Gleaming bright with all his war-paint ; 
In his wrath he darted upward, 
Flashing leaped into the sunshine, 
Opened his great jaws, and swallowed 
Both canoe and Hiawatha. 

Down into that darksome cavern 
Plunged the headlong Hiawatha, 
As a log on some black river 
Shoots and plunges down the rapids, 
Found himself in utter darkness, 
Groped about in helpless wonder, 
Till he felt a great heart beating, 
Throbbing in that utter darkness. 

And he smote it in his auger, 
With his fist, the heart of Nahma, 
Felt the mighty King of Fishes 
Shudder through each nerve and fibre, 
Heard the water gurgle round him 
As he leaped and staggered through it, 
Sick at heart, and faint and weary. 



Crosswise then did Hiawatha 
Drag his birch-canoe for safety, 
Lest from out the jaws of Nahma, 
In the turmoil and confusion, 
Forth he might be hurled and perish. 
And the squirrel, Adjidaumo, 
Frisked and chattered very gayly, 
Tailed and tugged with Hiawatha 
Till the labor was completed. 

Then said Hiawatha to him, 
" O my little friend, the squirrel, 
Bravely have you toiled to help me ; 
Take the thanks of Hiawatha, 
And the name which now he gives you ; 
For hereafter and forever 
Boys shall call you Adjidaumo, 
Tail-in-air the boys shall call you ! " 

And aga'n the sturgeon, Nahma, 
Gasped and quivered in the water, 
Then was still, and drifted landward 
Till he grated on the pebbles, 
Till the listening Hiawatha 
Heard him grate upon the margin, 
Felt him strand upon the pebbles, 
Knew that Nahma, King of Fishes, 
Lay there dead upon the margin. 
Then he heard a clang and flapping, 
i As of many wings assembling, 
I Heard a screaming and confusion, 
| As of birds of prey contending, 
j Saw a gleam of light above him, 
; Shining through the ribs of Nahma, 
! Saw the glittering eyes of sea-gulls, 
I Of Kayoshk, the sea-gulls, peering, 
Gazing at him through the opening, 
Heard them saying to each other, 
u 'T is our brother, Hiawatha! " 

And he shouted from below them, 
Cried exulting from the cavern : 
u O ye sea-gulls ! O my brothers ! 
I have slain the sturgeon, Nahma ; 
Make the rifts a little larger, 
With your claws the openings widen, 
Set me free from this dark prison, 
And henceforward and forever 
Men shall speak of your achievements, 
Calling you Kayoshk, the sea-gulls, 
Yes, Kayoshk, the Noble Scratchers ! " 
And the wild and clamorous sea-gulls 
Toiled with beak and claws together, 
Made the rifts and openings wider 
In the mighty ribs of Nahma, 
And from peril and from prison, 
From the body of the sturgeon, 
From the peril of the water, 
They released my Hiawatha. 

He was standing near his wigwam, 
On the margin of the water, 
And he called to old Nokomis, 
Called and beckoned to Nokomis, 
Pointed to the sturgeon, Nahma, 
Lying lifeless on the pebbles, 
With the sea-gulls feeding on him. 
'■ I have slain the Mishe-Nahma, 
Slain the King of Fishes ! " said he ; 
" Look ! the sea-gulls feed upon him, 
Yes, my friends Kayoshk, the sea-gulls ; 
j Drive them not away, Nokomis, 
I They have saved me from great peril 

In the body of the sturgeon, 
' Wait until their meal is ended, 
Till their craws are full with feasting, 
Till they homeward fly, at sunset, 
To their nests among the marshes ; 
Then bring all your pots and kettles, 
And make oil for us in Winter." 

And she waited till the sun set, 
Till the pallid moon, the Night-sun, 
Rose above the tranqnil water, 
Till Kayoshk, the sated sea-gulls, 
From their banquet rose with clamor, 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



129 



And across the fiery sunset 
Winged their way to far-off' islands, 
To their nests among the rushes. 

To his sleep went Hiawatha, 
And Nokomis to her labor, 
Toiling patient in the moonlight, 
Till the sun and moon changed places, 
Till the sky was red with sunrise, 
And Kayoshk, the hungry sea-gulls, 
Came back from the reedy islands, 
Clamorous for their morning banquet. 

Three whole days and nights alternate 
Old Nokomis and the sea-galls 
Stripped the oily flesh of Nahma, 
Till the waves washed through the rib-bones, 
Till the sea-gulls came no longer, 
And upon the sands lay nothing 
But the skeleton of Nahma. 



IX. 

HIAWATHA AND THE PEARL-FEATHEK. 

On the shores of Gitche Gumee, 
Of the shining Big-Sea-Water, 
Stood Nokomis, tiie old woman, 
Pointing with her finger westward, 
O'er the water pointing westward, 
To the purple clouds of sunset. 

Fiercely the red sun descending 
Burned his way along the heavens, 
Set the sky on fire behind him, 
As war-parties, when retreating, 
Burn the prairies on their war-trail ; 
And the moon, the Night-Sun, eastward, 
Suddenly starting from his ambush, 
Followed fast those bloody footprints, „ 
Followed in that fiery war-trail, 
With its glare upon his features. 

And Nokomis, the old woman, 
Pointing with her finger westward, 
Spake these words to Hiawatha : 
"Yonder dwells the great Pearl-Feather, 
Migissogwon, the Magician, 
Manito of Wealth and Wampum, 
Guarded by his fiery serpents, 
Guarded by the black pitch-water. 
You can see his fiery serpents. 
The Kenabeek, the great serpents, 
Coiling, playing in the water ; 
You can see the black pitch-water 
Stretching far away beyond them, 
To the purple clouds of sunset ! 
"He it was who slew my father, 
By his wicked wiles and cunning, 
When he from the moon descended, 
When he came on earth to seek me. 
He, the mightiest of Magicians, 
Sends the fever from the marshes, 
Sends the pestilential vapors, 
Sands the poisonous exhalations, 
Sends the white fog from the fen-lands, 
Sends disease and death among us ! 

" Take your bow, O Hiawatha, 
Take your arrow's, jasper-headed, 
Take your war-club, Puggawaugun, 
And your mittins, Minjekahwun, 
And your birch-canoe for sailing, 
And tiie oil of Mishe-Nahma, 
So to smear its sides, that swiftly 
You may pass the black pitch-water ; 
Slay this merciless magician. 
Save the people from the fever 
That he breathes across the fen-lands, 
And avenge my father's murder ! " 

Straightway then my Hiawatha 
Armed himself with all his war-gear, 
Launched his birch-canoe for sailing ; 1 
With his palm its sides he patted, 
Said with glee, ' l Cheemaun, mv darling, 
9 



O my Birch-Canoe ! leap forward, 
Where you see the fiery serpents, 
Where you see the black pitch-water ! " 

Forward leaped Cheemaun exulting, 
And the noble Hiawatha 
Sang his war-song wild and woful, 
And above him the war-eagle, 
The Keneu, the great war-eagle, 
Master of all fowl with feathers, 
Screamed and hurtled through the heavens. 

Soon he reached the fiery serpents, 
The Kenabeek, the great serpents, 
Lying huge upon the water, 
Sparkling, rippling in the water, 
Lying coiled across the passage, 
AVith their blaizing crests uplifted, 
Breathing fiery fogs and vapors. 
So that none could pass beyond them. 

But the fearless Hiawatha 
Cried aloud, and spake in this wise : 
" Let me pass my way, Kenabeek, 
Let me go upon my journey ! " 
And they answered, hissing fiercely, 
With their fiery breath made answer : 
"Back, go back ! O Shaugodaya ! 
Back to old Nokomis, Faint-heart ! " 

Then the angry Hiawatha 
Raised his mighty bow of ash-tree, 
Seized his arrows, jasper-headed, 
Shot them fast among the serpents ; 
Every twanging of the bow-string 
Was a war-cry and a death-cry, 
Every whizzing of an arrow 
Was a death -song of Kenabeek. 

Weltering in the bloody water, 
Dead lay all the fiery serpents, 
And among them Hiawatha 
Harmless sailed, and cried exulting : 
" Onward, O Cheemaun, my darling ! 
Onward tc the black pitch-water ! " 
Then he took the oil of Nahma, 
j And the bows and bides anointed, 
| Smeared them well with oil, that swiftly 
I He might pass the black pitch-water. 

All night long he sailed upon it, 
I Sailed upon that sluggish water, 
I Covered with its mould of ages, 
' Black with rotten water-rushes, 
i Bank with flags and leaves of lilies, 
| Stagnant, lifeless, dreary, dismal, 
1 Lighted by the shimmering moonlight, 
j And by will-o'-the-wisps illumined, 
i Fires by ghosts of dead men kindled, 
I In their weary night-encampments. 

All the air was white with moonlight, 
; All the water black Avith shadow, 
j And around him the Suggema, 
The mosquito, sang his war-song, 
And the fire-flies. Wah-wah-taysee, 
Waved their torches to mislead him ; 
And the bull -frog, the Dahinda, 
Thrust his head into the moonlight, 
Fixed his yellow eyes upon him, 
Sobbed and sank beneath the surface ; 
And anon a thousand whistles, 
Answered over all the fen-lands, 
And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
Far oft* on the reedy margin, 
Heralded the hero's coming. 

Westward thus fared Hiawatha, 
Toward the realm of Megissogwou, 
Toward the land of the Pearl-Feather, 
Till the level moon stared at him, 
In his face stared pale and haggard. 
Till the sun was hot behind him, 
Till it burned upon his shoulders, 
And before him on the upland 
He could see the Shining Wigwam 
Of the Manito of Wampum, 
Of the mightiest of Magicians. 

Then once more Cheemaun he patted, 



130 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 




To his birch-canoe said, tk Onward ! " 


And he reeled and staggered forward, 




And it stirred in all its fibres. 


Plunging like a wounded bison, 




And with one great bound of triumph 


Yes, like Pezhekee, the bison, 




Leaped across the water-lilies, 


When the snow is on the prairie. 




Leaped through tangled flags and rushes, 


Swifter flew the second arrow, 




And upon the beach beyond them 


In the pathway of the other, 




Dry-shod landed Hiawatha. 


Piercing deeper than the other, 




Straight he took his bow of ash-tree, 


Wounded sorer than the other ; 




On the sand one end he rested, 


And the knees of Megissogwon 




With his knee he pressed the middle, 


Shook like windy reeds beneath him, 




Stretched the faitnf ul bow-string tighter, 


Bent and trembled like the rushes. 




Took an arrow, jasper-headed, 


But the third and latest arrow 




Shot it at the Shining Wigwam, 


Swiftest flew, and wounded sorest, 




Sent it singing as a herald, 


And the mighty Megissogwon 




As a bearer of his message, 


Saw the fiery eyes of Pauguk, 




Of his challenge loud and lofty : 


Saw the eyes of Death glar? at him, 




"Come forth from your lodged Pearl-Feather ! 


Heard his voice call in the darkness ; 




Hiawatha waits your coming ! " 


At the feet of Hiawatha 




Straightway from the Shining Wigwam 


Lifeless lay the great Pearl-Feather, 




Came the mighty Megissogwon, 


Lay the mightiest of Magicians. 




Tall of stature, broad of shoulder, 


Then the grateful Hiawatha 




Dark and terrible in aspect, 


Called the Mama, the Avoodpecker, 




Clad from head to foot in wampum, 


From his perch among the branches 




Armed with all his warlike weapons, 


Of the melancholy pine-tree, 




Painted like the sky of morning, 


And, in honor of his service, 




Streaked with crimson, blue, and yellow, 


Stained with blood the tuft of feathers 




Crested with great eagle feathers, 


On the little head of Mama ; 




Streaming upward, streaming outward. 


Even to this day he wears it, 




' ' Well I know you, Hiawatha ! " 


Wears the tuft of crimson feathers, 




Cried he in a voice of thunder, 


As a symbol of his service. 




In a tone of loud derision, 


Then he stripped the shirt of wampum 




" Hasten back, O Shaugodaya ! 


From the back of Megissogwon, 




Hasten back among the women, 


As a trophy of the battle, 




Back to old Nokomis, Faint-heart ! 


As a signal of his conquest. 




I will slay you as you stand there, 


On the shore he left the body, 




As of old' I slew her father ! " 


Half on land and half in water, 




But my Hiawatha answered, 


In the sand his feet were burried, 




Nothing daunted, fearing nothing : 


And his face was in the water. 




" Big words do not smite like war-clubs, 


And above him. wheeled and clamored 




Boastful breath is not a bow-string, 


The Keneu, the great war-eagle, 




Taunts are not so sharp as arrows, 


Sailing round in narrower circles, 




Deeds are better things than words are, 


Hovering nearer, nearer, nearer. 




Actions mightier than boastings ! " 


From the wigwam Hiawatha 




Then began the greatest battle 


Bore the wealth of Megissogwon, 




That the sun had ever looked on, 


All his wealth of skins and wampum. 




That the war-birds ever witnessed. 


Furs of bison and of beaver, 




All a Summer's day it lasted, 


Furs of sable and of ermine, 




From the sunrise till the sunset ; 


Wampum belts and strings and pouches, 




For the shafts of Hiawatha 


Quivers wrought with beads of wampum, 




Harmless hit the shirt of wampum, 


Filled with arrows, silver -headed. 




Harmless fell the blows he dealt it 


Homeward then he sailed exulting, 




With his mittens, Minjekahwun, 


Homeward through the black pitch-water, 




Harmless fell the heavy war-club ; 


Homeward through the weltering serpents, 




It could dash the rocks asunder, 


With the trophies of the battle. 




But it could not break the meshes 


With a shout and song of triumph. 




Of that magic sh'rt of wampum. 


On the shore stood old Nokomis, 




Till at sunset Hiawatha, 


On the shore stood Chibiabos, 




Leaning on his bow of ash-tree, 


And the very strong man, Kwasind, 




Wounded, weary, and desponding, 


Waiting for the hero's coming, 




With his mighty war-club broken, 


Listening to his song of triumph. 




With his mittens torn and tattered, 


And the people of the village 




And three useless arrows only, 


Welcomed him with songs and dances, 




Paused to rest beneath a pine-tree, 


Made a joyous feast, and shouted : 




From whose branches trailed the mosses, 


lt Honor be to Hiawatha ! 




And whose trunk was coated over 


He has slain the great Pearl-Feather, 




With the Dead-man's Moccasin-leather, 


Slain the mightiest of Magicians, 




With the fungus white and yellow. 


Him who sent the fiery fever, 




Suddenly from the boughs above him 


Sent the white fog from the fen-lands, 




Sang the Mama, i he woodpecker : 


Sent disease and death among us ! " 




" Aim your arrows, Hiawatha, 


Ever dear to Hiawatha 




At the head of Megissogwon, 


Was the memory of Mama ! 




Strike the tuft of hair upon it. 


And in token of his friendship, 




At their roots the long black tresses ; 


As a mark of his remembrance, 




There alone can he be wounded ! " 


He adorned and decked his pipe-stem 




Winged with feathers, tipped with jasper, 


With the crimson tuft of feathers, 




Swift flew Hiawatha's arrow, 


With the blood-red crest of Mama ! 




Just as Megissogwon, stooping, 


But the wealth of Megissogwon, 




Raised a heavy stone to throw it. 


All the trophies of the battle, 




Full upon the crown it struck him, 


He divided with his people. 




At the roots of his long tresses, 


Shared it equally among them. 





THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



131 



HIAWATHA S WOOING. 

" As unto the bow the cord is, 
So unto the man is woman, 
Though she bends him, she obeys him, 
Though she draws him, yet she follows, 
Useless each without the other ! " 

Thus the youthful Hiawatha 
Said within himself and pondered, 
Much perplexed by various feelings, 
Listless, longing, hoping, fearing, 
Dreaming still of Minnehaha, 
Of the lovely Laughing Water, 
In the land of the Dacotahs. 

11 Wed a maiden of your people," 
Warning said the old Nokomis ; 
" Go not eastward, go not westward, 
For a stranger, whom we know not ! 
Like a fire upon the hearth-stone 
Is a neighbor's homely daughter, 
Like the starlight or the moonlight 
Is the handsomest of strangers ! " 

Thus dissuading spake Nokomis, 
And my Hiawatha answered 
Only this : " Dear old Nokomis, 
Very pleasant is the firelight, 
But I like the starlight better, 
Better do I like the mounlight ! " 

Gravely then said old Nokomis : 
" Bring not here an idle maiden, 
Bring not here a useless woman, 
Hands unskilful, feet unwilling ; 
Bring a wife with nimble fingers, 
Heart and hand that move together, 
Feet that run on willing errands I " 

Smiling answered Hiawatha : 
" In the land of the Dacotahs 
Lives the arrow-mak jr's daughter, 
Minnehaha, Laughing Water, 
Handsomest of ail the women. 
I will bring her to your wigwam, 
She shall run upon your errands, 
Be your starlight, moonlight, firelight, 
Be the sunlight of my people ! " 

Sbili dissuading said Nokomis : 
" Bring not to mv lodge a stranger 
From the land of the Dacotahs ! 
Very tierce are the Dacotahs, 
Often is there war between us, 
There are feu; is yet unforgotten, 
Wounds that ache and still may open ! " 

Laughing answered Hiawatha: 
" For fiat reason, if no other, 
Would I we I the fair Dacotah, 
That our tribes might be united, 
That old feuds might be forgotten, 
An 1 old wounds be healed forever ! " 

Thus departed Hiawatha 
To the land of the Dacotahs, 
To the land of handsome women ; 
Striding over moor and meadow, 
Through interminable forests, 
Through uninterrupted silence, 

With his moccasins of magic. 
At each stride a mile he measured ; 
Yet the way seemed long before him, 
And Ids h?art outrun his footsteps ; 
And he journeyed without resting, 
Till he heard the cataract's laughter, 
Heard tli2 Falls of Minnehaha 
Calling to him through the silence. 
"Pleasant is the sound ! " he murmured, 
" Pleasant is the voice that calls me ! " 

On the outskirts of the forest, 
Twixt the shadow and the sunshine, 
Herds of fallow deer were feeding, 
But they saw not Hiawatha ; 
To his bow he whispered, "Fail not ! " 
To his arrow whispered , "Swerve not ! " 



Sent it singing on its errand, 
To the red heart of the roebuck; 
Threw the deer across his shoulder, 
And sped forward without pausing. 

At the doorway of his wigwam 
Sat the ancient Arrow-maker, 
In the land of the Dacotahs, 
Making arrow-heads of jasper. 
Arrow-heads of chalcedony. 
At his side, in all her beauty, 
Sat the lovely Minnehaha, 
Sat his daughter, Laughing Water, 
Plaiting mats of flags and rushes ; 
Of the past the old man's thoughts were, 
And the maiden's of the future. 

He was thinking, as he sat there. 
Of the days when with such arrows 
He had struck the deer and bison, 
On the Muskoday, the meadow ; 
Shot the wild goose, flying southward, 
On the wing, the clamorous Wawa ; 
Thinking of the great war-parties, 
How they came to buy his arrows. 
Could not fight without his arrows. 
Ah, no more such noble warriors 
Could be found on earth as they were ! 
Now the men were all like women, 
Only used their tongues for weapons 

She was thinking of a hunter, 
From another tribe and country, 
Young and tall a-id very handsome. 
Who one morning, in the Spring-time, 
Came to buy her father's arrows, 
Sat and rested in the wigwam. 
Lingered long about the doorway, 
Looking back as he departed, 
She had heard her father praise him, 
Praise his courage and his wisdom ; 
Would he come again for arrows 
To the Falls of Minnehaha ? 
On the mat her hands lay idle, 
And her eyes were very dream}'. 

Through their thoughts they heard a footstc 
Heard a rustling in the branches, 
And with glowing cheek and forehead, 
With the deer upon his shoulders, 
Suddenly from out the woodlands 
Hiawatha stood before them. 

Straight the ancient Arrow-maker 
Looked up gravely from his labor, 
Laid aside the unfinished arrow, 
Bade him enter at the doorway, 
Saying, as he rose to meet him, 
"Hiawatha, you are welcome ! " 

At the feet of Laughing Water 
Hiawatha laid his burden. 
Threw the red deer from his shoulders 
And the maiden looked np at him, 
Looked up from her mat of rushes, 
Said with gentle look and accent, 
"• You are welcome. Hiawatha ! " 

Very spacious was the wigwam. 
Made of deer-skin dressed and whitened, 
With the Gods of the Dacotahs 
Drawn and painted on its curtains, 
And so tall the doorway, hardly 
Hiawatha stooped to enter. 
Hardly touched his eagle-feathers 
As he entered at the doorway. 

Then uprose the Laughing Water, 
From the ground fair Minnehaha, 
Laid aside her mat unfinished, 
Brought forth food and set before them, 
Water brought them from the brooklet, 
Give them food in earthen vessels, 
Gave them drink in bowls of bass-wood, 
Listened while the guest was speaking, 
Listened while her father answered, 
But not once her lips she opened, 
Not a single word she uttered. 

Yes, as in a dream she listened 



132 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



To the words of Hiawatha, 
As he talked of old Nokomis, 
Who had nursed him in his childhood, 
As he told of his companions, 
Chibiabos, the musician, 
And the very strong man, Kwasind, 
And of happiness and plenty 
In the land of the Ojibways, 
In the pleasant land and peaceful. 
u After many years of warfare, 
Many years of strife and bloodshed, 
There is peace between the Ojibways 
And the tribe of the Dacotahs." 
Thus continued Hiawatha, 
And then added, speaking slowly, 
" That this peace may last forever, 
And our hands be clasped more closely, 
And our hearts be more united, 
(live me as my wife this maiden, 
Minnehaha, Laughing Water, 
Loveliest of Dacotah women ! " 
And the ancient Arrow-maker 
Paused a moment ere he answered, 
Smoked a little while in silence, 
Looked at Hiawatha proudly. 
Fondly looked at Laughing Water, 
And made answer very gravely : 
"Yes, if Minnehaha wishes ; 
Let your heart speak, Minnehaha ! " 

And the lovely Laughing Water 
Seemed more lovely as she stood there, 
Neither willing nor reluctant, 
As she went to Hiawatha, 
Softly took the seat beside him, 
While she said, and blushed to say it, 
11 1 will follow you, my husband ! " 

This was Hiawatha's wooing ! 
Thus it was he won the daughter 
Of the ancient Arrow-maker, 
In the land of the Dacotahs ! 

From the wigwam he departed, 
Leading with him Laughing Water ; 
Hand in hand they went together, 
Through the woodland and the meadow, 
Left the old man standing lonely 
At the doorway of his wigwam, 
Heard the Falls of Minnehaha 
Calling to them from the distance, 
Crying to them from afar off', 
" Fare thee well, O Minnehaha ! " 

And the ancient Arrow-maker 
Turned again unto his labor, 
Sat down by his sunny doorway, 
Murmuring to himself, and saying : 
" Thus it is our daughters leave us, 
Those we love, and those who love us ! 
Just when they have learned to help us, 
When we are old and lean upon them, 
Comes a youth with flaunting feathers, 
With his flute of reeds, a stranger 
Wanders piping through the village, 
Beckons to the fairest maiden, 
And she follows where he leads her, 
Leaving all things for the stranger ! " 

Pleasant was the journey homeward, 
Through interminable forests, 
Over meadow, over mountain, 
Over river, hill, and hollow. 
Short it seemed to Hiawatha, 
Though they journeyed very slowly, 
Though his pace he checked and slackened 
To the steps of Laughing Water. 

Over wide and rushing rivers 
In his arms he bore the maiden ; 
Light he thought her as a feather, 
As the plume upon his head-gear ; 
Cleared the tangled pathway for her, 
Bent aside the swaying branches, 
Made at night a lodge of branches. 
And a bed with boughs of hemlock, 
And a fire before the doorway 



With the dry cones of the pine-tree. 

All the travelling winds went with them, 
O'er the meadow, through the forest ; 
All the stars of night looked at them, 
Watched with sleepless eyes their slumber : 
From his ambush in the oak-tree 
Peeped the squirrel, Adjidaumo, 
Watched with eager eyes the lovers ; 
And the rabbit, the Wabasso, 
Scampered from the path before them, 
Peering, peeping from his burrow, 
Sat erect upon his haunches, 
Watched with curious eyes the lovers. 

Pleasant was the journey homeward ! 
All the birds sang loud and sweetly 
Songs of happiness and heart's-ease ; 
Sang the bluebird the Owassa, 
1 ' Happy are you, Hiawatha, 
Having such a wife to love you ! " 
Sang the robin, the Opechee. 
"Happy are you Laughing Water, 
Having such a noble husband ! " 

From the sky the sun benignant 
Looked upon them through the branches, 
Saying to them, " O my children, 
Love is sunshine, hate is shadow, 
Life is checkered shade and sunshine, 
Rule by love, O Hiawatha ! " 

From the sky the moon looked at them, 
Filled the lodge with mystic splendors, 
Whisperd to them, " O my children, 
Day is restless, night is quiet, 
Mail imperious, woman feeble ; 
Half is mine, although I follow; 
Rule by patience, Laughing Water ! " 

Thus it was they journeyed homeward ; 
Thus it was that Hiawatha 
To the lodge of old. Nokomis 
Brought the moonlight, starlight, firelight, 
Brought the sunshine of his people, 
Minnehaha, Laughing Water, 
Handsomest of all the women 
In the land of the Dacotahs, 
In the land of handsome women. 



XL 

HIAWATHA'S WEDDING-FEAST. 

You shall hear how Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
How the handsome Yenadizze 
Danced at Hiawatha's wedding ; 
How the gentle Chibiabos, 
He the sweetest of musicians, 
Sang his songs of love and longing ; 
How Iagoo, the great boaster, 
He the marvellous story-teller, 
Told his tales of strange adventure, 
That the feast might be more joyous, 
That the time might pass more gayly, 
And the guests be more contented. 

Sumptuous was the feast Nokomis 
Made at Hiawatha's wedding ; 
All the bowls were made of bass-wood, 
White and polished very smoothly, 
All the spoons of horn of bison, 
Black and polished very smoothly. 

She had sent through all the village 
Messengers with wands of willow, 
As a sign of invitation, 
As a token of the feasting ; 
And the wedding guests assembled, 
Clad in all their richest raiment, 
Robes of fur and belts of wampum, 
Splendid with their paint and plumage, 
Beautiful with beads and tassels. 

First they ate the sturgeon, Nahma, 
And the pike, the Maskenozha, 
Caught and cooked by old Nokomis ; 
Then on pemican they feasted, 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



133 



Pemican and buffalo marrow, 
Haunch of deer and hump of bison, 
Yellow cakes of the Mondamin, 
And the wild rice of the river. 

But the gracious Hiawatha, 
And the lovely Laughing Water, 
And the careful old Nokomis, 
Tasted not the food before them, 
Only waited on the others, 
Only served their guests in silence. 

And when all the guests had finished, 
Old Nokomis, brisk and busy, 
From an ample pouch of otter. 
Filled the red-stone pipes for smoking 
With tobacco from the South-land, 
Mixed with bark of the red willow, 
And with herbs and leaves of fragrance. 

Then she said, "0 Pau-Pnk-Keewis, 
Dance for us your merry dances, 
Dance the Beggars Dance to please us, 
That the feast may be more joyous, 
That the time may pass more gayly, 
And our guests be more contented ! " 

Then the handsome Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
He the idle Yenadizze, 
He the merry mischief-maker, 
Whom the people called the Storm-Fool, 
Rose among the guests assembled. 

Skilled was he in sports and pastimes, 
In the merry dance of snow-shoes, 
In the play of quoits and ball-play ; 
Skilled was he in games of hazard, 
In all gunes of skill and hazard, 
Pugasaing, the Bowl and Counters, 
Kuntassoo, the Game of plum-stones. 

Though the warriors called him Faint-Heart, 
Called him coward, Shaugodaya 
Idler, gambler, Yenadizze, 
Little heeded he their jesting. 
Little cared he for their insults, 
For the women and the maidens 
Loved the handsome Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

He was dressed in shirt of doeskin, 
White and soft, and fringed with ermine. 
All inwrought with beads of wampum ; 
He was dressed in deer-skin leggings, 
Fringed with hedgehog quills and ermine 
And in moccasins of buck-skin, 
Thick with quills and beads embroidered. 
On his head were plumes of swan's down, 
On his heels were tails of foxes, 
In one hand a fan of feathers, 
And a pipe was in the other. 

Barred with streaks of red and yelljw, 
Streaks of blue and bright vermilion, 
Shone the face of Pau-Puk-Keewis. 
From his forehead fell his tresses. 
Smooth, and parted like a woman's, 
Shining bright with oil, and plaited, 
Hung with braids of scented grasses, 
As among the guests assembled, 
To the sound of flutes and singing 
To the sound of drums and voices, 
Rose the handsome Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
And began his mystic dances. 

First he danced a solemn measure, 
Very slow in step and gesture, 
In and out among the pine-trees, 
Through the shadows and the sunshine, 
Treading softly like a panther. 
Then more swiftly and still swifter, 
Whirling, spinning round in circles, 
Leaping o'er the guests assembled, 
Eddying round and round the wigwam. 
Till the leaves went wdiirling with him, 
Till the dust and wind together 
Swept in eddies round about him. 

Then along the sandy margin 
Of the lake, the Big-Sea- Water, 
On he sped with frenzied gestures, 
Stamped upon the sand, and tossed it 



Wildly in the air around him ; 
Till the wind became a whirlwind, 
Till the sand was blown and sifted 
Like great snowdrifts o'er the landscape, 
Heaping all the shores with Sand Dunes, 
Sand Hills of the Nagow Wudjoo ! 

Thus the merry Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Danced his Beggar's Dance to please them. 
And, returning, sat down laugh :ng 
There among the guests assembled, 
Sat and fanned himself serenely 
With his fan of turkey-feathers. 

Then they said to Chibiabos, 
To the friend of Hiawatha, 
To the sweetest of all singers, 
To the best of all musicians, 
"Sing to us, O Chibiabos ! 
Songs of love and songs of longing, 
That the feast may be more joyous, 
That the time may pass more gayly, 
And our guests be more contented ! " 

And the gentle Chibiabos 
Sang in accents sweet and tender, 
Sang in tones of deep emotion, 
Songs of love and soi:gs of long'.ng; 
Looking still at Hiawatha, 
Looking at fair Laughing Water, 
Sang he softly, sang in this wise : 

" Onaway ! Awake, beloved ! 
Thou the wild-flower of the forest ! 
Thou the wild-bird of the prairie ! 
Thou with eyes so soft and fawn-like ! 

" If thou only lookest at me, 
I am happy, I am happy. 
As the lilies of the prairie, 
When they feel the dew upon them ! 

1 ' Sweet thy breath is as the fragrance 
Of the wild-flowers in the morning, 
As their fragrance is at evening. 
In the Moon when leaves are failing. 

" Does not all the blood within me 
Leap to meet thee, leap to meet thee, 
As the springs to meet the sunshine. 
In the Moon when nights are brightest ? 

"Onaway ! my heart sings to thee, 
Sings with joy when thou art near me, 
As the sighing, singing branch ts 
In the pleasant Moon of Strawberries ! 

LL When thou art not pleased, beloved, 
Then my heart is sad and darkened, 
As the shining river darkens 
When the clouds drop shadows on it ! 

"* When thou smilest, my beloved, 
Then my troubled heart is brightened, 
As in sunshine gleam the ripples 
That the cold wind makes in rivers. 

"Smiles the earth, and smile the waters, 
Smile the cloudless skies above us, 
But I lose the way of smiling 
When thou art no longer near me ! 

" I myself, myself ! behold me ! 
Blood of my beating heart, behold me ! 
O awake, awake, beloved ! 
Onaway ! awake, beloved ! " 

Thus the gentle Chibiabos 
Sang his song of love and longing ; 
And Iagoo, the great boaster. 
He the marvellous story-teller, 
He the friend of old ISokomis, 
Jealous of the sweet musician, 
Jealous of the applause they gave him, 
Saw in all the eyes around him. 
Saw in all their looks and gestures. 
That the wedding guests assembled 
Longed to hear his pleasant stories, 
His immeasurable falsehoods. 

Very boastful was Iagoo ; 
Never heard he an adventure 
But himself had met a greater ; 
Never any deed of daring 
Bu^ himself had done a bolder ; 



134 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



Never any marvellous story 
But himself could tell a stranger. 

Would you listen to his boasting, 
Would you only give him credence, 
No one ever shot an arrow 
Half so far and high as he had ; 
Ever caught so many fishes. 
Ever killed so many reindeer, 
Ever trapped so many beaver ! 

None could run so fast as he could, 
None could dive so deep as he could, 
None could swim so far as he could ; 
None had made so many journeys, 
None had seen so many wonders, 
As this wonderful Iagoo, 
As this marvellous story-teller ! 

Thus his name became a by-word 
And a jest among the people ; 
And whene'er a boastful hunter 
Praised his own address too highly, 
Or a warrior, home returning, 
Talked too much of his achievements, 
All his hearers cried, 1 1 Iagoo ! 
Here's Iagoo come among us ! " 

He it was who carved the cradle 
Of the little Hiawatha, 
Carved its 'framework out of linden, 
Bound it strong with reindeer sinews ; 
He it was who taught him later 
How to make his bows and arrows, 
How to make the bows of ash-tree, 
And the arrows of the oak-tree. 
So among the guests assembled 
At my Hiawatha's wedding 
Sat Iagoo, old and ugly, 
Sat the marvellous story-teller. 

And they said, "O good Iagoo, 
Tell us now a tale of wonder, 
Tell us of some strange adventure, 
That the feast may be more joyous, 
That the time may pass more gayly, 
And our guests be more contented ! " 

And Iagoo answered straightway, 
" You shall hear a tale of wonder, 
You shall hear the strange adventures 
Of Osseo, the magician, 
From the Evening Star descended." 



XII. 

THE SON OP THE EVENING STAR. 

Can it be the sun descending 
O'er the level plain of water ? 
Or the Red Swan floating, flying, 
Wounded by the magic arrow, 
F taming all the waves with crimson, 
With the crimson of its life-blood, 
Filling all the air with splendor, 
With the splendor of its plumage? 

Yes ; it is the sun descending, 
Sinking down into the water, 
All the sky is stained with purple, 
All the water flushed with crimson ! 
No ; it is the Red Swan floating, 
Diving down beneath the water; 
To the sky its wings are lifted, 
With its blood the waves are reddened ! 

Over it the Star of Evening 
Melts and trembles through the purple, 
Hangs suspended in the twilight. 
No ; it is a bead of wampum 
On the robes of the Great Spirit, 
As he passes through the twilight, 
Walks in silence through the heavens. 

This with joy beheld Iagoo 
And he said in haste : ' l Behold it ! 
S3e the sacred Star of Evening ! 
You shall hear a tale of wonder, 
Hear the story of Osseo, 



Son of the Evening Star, Osseo ! 

" Once, in days no more remembered, 
Ages nearer the beginning, 
When the heavens were closer to us, 
And the Gods were more familiar, 
In the North-land lived a hunter, 
With ten young and comely daughters, 
Tall and lithe as wands of willow ; 
Only Oweenee, the youngest, 
She the willful and the wayward, 
She the silent, dreamy maiden, 
Was the fairest of the sisters. 

"•All these women married warriors, 
Married brave and haughty husbands ; 
Only Owenee, the youngest, 
Laughed and flouted all her lovers, 
All her young and handsome suitors, 
And then married old Osseo, 
Old Osseo, poor and ugly, 
Broken with age and weak with coughing, 
Always coughing like a squirrel. 

" Ah, but beautiful within him 
Was the spirit of Osseo, 
From the Evening Star descended, 
Star of Evening, Star of Woman, 
Star of tenderness and passion ! 
All its fire was in his bosom, 
All its beauty in his spirit, 
All its mystery in his being, 
All its splendor in his language ! 

"And her lovers, the rejected; 
Handsome men with belts of wampum, 
Handsome men with paint and feathers, 
Pointed at her in derision, 
Followed her with jest and laughter. 
But she said : ' I care not for you, 
Care not for your belts of wampum. 
Care not for your paint and feathers, 
Care not for your jests and laughter : 
I am happy with Osseo ! ' 

" Once to some great feast invited, 
Through the damp and dusk of evening 
Walked together the ten sisters, 
Walked together with their husbands ; 
Slowly followed old Osseo, 
With fair Oweenee beside him ; 
All the others chatted gayly, 
These two only walked in silence. 

"At the western sky Osseo 
Gazed intent, as if imploring, 
Often stopped and gazed imploring 
At the trembling Star of Evening. 
At the tender Star of Woman ; 
And they heard him murmur softly, 

' Ah, showain nemeshin, JVosaf 
Pity, pity me, my father ! ' 

" ' Listen ! ' said the eldest sister, 
' He is praying to his father i 
What a pity that the old man 
Does not stumble in the pathway, 
Does not break his neck by falling ! ' 
And they laughed till all the forest 
Rang with their unseemly laughter. 

"On their pathway through the woodlands 
Lay an oak, by storms uprooted. 
Lay the great trunk of an oak-tree, 
Buried half in leaves and mosses, 
Mouldering, crumbling, huge and hollow. 
And Osseo, when he saw it, 
Gave a shout, a cry of anguish, 
Leaped into its yawning cavern, 
At one end went in an old man, 
Wasted, wrinkled, old, and ugly ; 
From the other came a young man, 
Tall and straight and strong and handsome. 

"Thus Osseo was transfigured, 
Thus restored to youth and beauty ; 
But, alas for good Osseo, 
And for Oweenee, the faithful ! 
Strangely, too, was she transfigured. 
Changed into a weak old woman, 






THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



133 



With a staff she tottered onward, 
Wasted, wrinkled, old, and ugly ! 
And the sisters and their husbands 
Laughed until the echoing forest 
Rang with their unseemly laughter. 

" But Osseo turned not from her, 
Walked with slower step beside her, 
Took her hand, as brown and withered 
As an oak-leaf is in Winter, 
Called her sweetheart, Nenemoosha, 
Soothed her with soft words of kindness, 
Till they reached the lodge of feasting, 
Till they sat down in the wigwam, 
Sacred to the Star of Evening, 
To the tender Star of Woman. 

11 Wrapt in visions, lost in dreaming, 
At the banquet sat Osseo ; 
All were merry, all were happy, 
All were joyous but Osseo. 
Neither food nor drink he tasted, 
Neither did he speak nor listen, 
But as one bewildered sat he, 
Looking dreamily and sadly, 
First at Oweenee, then upward 
At the gleaming sky above them. 

"Then a voice was heard, a whisper, 
Coming from the starry distance, 
Coming from the empty vastness, 
Low, and musical, and tender ; 
And the voice said : ' O Osseo ! 
O my son, my best beloved ! 
Broken are the spells that bound you, 
All the charms of the magicians, 
All the magic powers of evil; 
Come to me ; ascend, Osseo ! 

" l Taste the food that stands before you : 
It is blessed an 1 enchanted, 
It has magic virtues in it, 
It will change you to a spirit. 
All your bowls and all your kettles 
Shall be woo 1 and clay no longer ; 
But the bowls be changed to wampum, 
And the kettles shall be silver ; 
They shall shine like shells of scarlet, 
Like the hie shall gleam and glimmer. 

" l And the women shall no longer 
Bear the dreary doom of labor, 
But be changed to birds, and glisten 
With the beauty of the starlight, 
Painted wron the dusky splendors 
Or. the skies and clouds of evening ! ' 

" What Osseo heard as whispers, 
What as words he comprehended, 
Was but music to the others, 
Music as of birds afar off, 
Of the whippoorwill afar off, 
Of the lonely Wawonaissa 
Singing in the darksome forest. 

"Then the lodge began to tremble, 
Straight began to shake and tremble, 
And they felt it rising, rising, 
Slowly through the air ascending, 
From the darkness of the tree-tops 
Forth into the dewy starlight, 
Till it passed the topmost branches ; 
And behold ! the wooden dishes 
All were changed to shells of scarlet ! 
And behold ! the earthen kettles 
All were changed to bowls of silver ! 
And the roof-poles of the wigwam 
Were as glittering rods of silver, 
And the roof of bark upon them 
As the shining shards of beetles. 

" Then Osseo gazed around him, 
And he saw the nine fair sisters. 
All the sisters and their husbands, 
Changed to birds of various plumage. 
Some were jays and some were magpies, 
Others thrushes, others blackbirds ; 
And they hopped, and sang, and twittered, 
Perked and fluttered all their feathers, 



Strutted in their shining plumage, 

And their tails like fans unfolded. 

*' Only Oweenee, the youngest, 

Was not changed, but sat in silence, 
Wasted, wrinkled, old. and ugly, 
Looking sadly at the others, 
Till Osseo, gazing upward, 
Gave another cry of anguish, 
Such a cry as he had uttered 
By the oak-tree in the forest. 

"Then returned her youth and beauty, 
And her soiled and tattered garments 
Were transformed to robes of ermine, 
And her staff became a feather, 
Yes, a shining silver feather ! 

" And again the wigwam trembled. 
Swayed and rushed through airy currents, 
Through transpaient cloud and vapor, 
And amid celestial splendors 
On the Evening Star alighted, 
As a snow-flake falls on snow-flake, 
As a leaf drops on a river, 
As the thistle-down on water. 

" Forth with cheerful words of welcome 
Came the father of Osseo, 
He with radiant locks of silver, 
He with eyes serene and tender. 
And he said : k My son, Osseo, 
Hang the cage of birds you bring there, 
Hang the cage with rods of silver, 
And the birds with glistening feathers, 
At the doorway of my wigwam.' 

"At the door he hung the bird-cage, 
And they entered in, and gladly 
Listened to Osseo' s father, 
Ruler of the Star of Evening, 
As he said : ' O my Osseo ! 
I have had compassion on you. 
Given you back your youth and beauty, 
Into birds of various plumage 
Changed your sisters and their husbands ; 
Changed them thus because they mocked you 
In the figure of the old man. 
In that aspect sad and wrinkled, 
Could not see your heart of passion, 
Could rot see your youth immortal ; 
Only Oweenee, the faithful, 
Saw your naked heart and loved you. 

" ' In the lodge that glimmers yonder, 
In the little star that twinkles 
Through the vapors, on the left hand, 
Lives the envious Evil Spirit, 
The Wabeno, the magician, 
Who transformed you to an old man. 
Take heed lest his beams fall on you, 
For the rays he darts around him 
Are the power of his enchantment, 
Are the arrows that he uses.' 

" Many years, in peace and quiet, 
On the peaceful Star of Evening 
Dwelt Osseo with his father ; 
Many years, in song and flutter, 
At the doorway of the wigwam. 
Hung the cage with rods of silver, 
And fair Oweenee, the faithful, 
Bore a son unto Osseo, 
With the beauty of his mother, 
With the courage of his father. 

" And the boy grew up and prospered, 
And Osseo. to delight him, 
Made him little bows and arrows, 
Opened the great cage of silver. 
And let loose his aunts and uncles, 
All those birds with glossy feathers, 
For his little son to shoot at. 

" Round and round they wheeled and darted, 
Filled the Evening Star with music, 
With their songs of joy and freedom ; 
Filled the Evening Star with splendor, 
With the fluttering of their plumage ; 
Till the boy, the little hunter, 



136 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



Bent his bow and shot an arrow, 
Shot a swift and fatal arrow, 
And a bird, with shining feathers, 
At his feet fell wounded sorely. 

11 But, O wondrous transformation ! 
'T was no bird he saw before him, 
'T was a beautiful young woman, 
With the arrow in her bosom ! 

41 When her blood fell on the planet, 
On the sacred Star of Evening, 
Broken was the spell of magic. 
Powerless was the strange enchantment, 
And the youth, the fearless bowman, 
Suddenly felt himself descending, 
Held by unseen hands, but sinking 
Downward through the empty spaces, 
Downward through the clouds and vapors, 
Till he rested on an island, 
On an island, green and grassy, 
Yonder in the Big-Sea-Water. 

11 After him he saw descending 
All the birds with shining feathers, 
Fluttering, falling, wafted downward, 
Like the painted leaves of Autumn ; 
And the lodge with poles of silver, 
With its roof like wings of beetles, 
Like the shining shards of beetles, 
By the winds of heaven uplifted, 
Slowly sank upon the island. 
Bringing back the good Osseo, 
Bringing Oweenee, the faithful. 

u Then the birds, again transfigured, 
Reassumed the shape of mortals, 
Took their shape, but not their stature ; 
They remained as Little People, 
Like the pygmies, the Puk-Wudjies, 
And on pleasant nights of Summer, 
When the Evening Star was shining, 
Hand in hand they danced together 
On the island's craggy headlands, 
On the sand-beach low and level. 

" Still their glittering lodge is seen there, 
On the tranquil Summer evenings, 
And upon the shore the fisher 
Sometimes hears their happy voices, 
Sees them dancing in the starlight ! '' 

When tj»e story was completed, 
When the wondrous tale was ended, 
Looking round upon his listeners, 
Solemnly Iagoo added : 
1,1 There are great men, I have known such, 
Whom their people understand not, 
Whom they even make a jest of, 
Scoff and jeer at in derision. 
From the story of Osseo 
Let us learn the fate of jesters ! " 

All the wedding guests delighted 
Listened to the marvellous story, 
Listened laughing and applauding, 
And they whispered to each other : 
44 Does he mean himself, I wonder ? 
And are we the aunts and uncles ? " 

Then again sang Chibiabos, 
Sang a song of love and longing, 
In those accents sweet and tender, 
In those tones of pensive sadness, 
Sang a maiden's lamentation 
For her lover, her Algonquin. 

" When I think of my beloved, 
Ah me ! think of my beloved, 
When my heart is thinking of him, 
O my sweetheart, my Algonquin ! 

■ ' Ah me ! when I parted from him, 
Round my neck he hung the wampum, 
As a pledge, the snow-white wampum, 
O my sweetheart, my Algonquin ! 

4 ' I will go with you, he whispered, 
Ah me ! to your native country ; 
Let me go with you, he whispered, 
O my sweetheart, my Algonquin ! 

44 Far away, away, I answered, 



Very far away, I answered, 

Ah me ! is my native country, 

O my sweetheart, my Algonquin ! 

1,1 When I looked back to behold him, 
Where we parted, to behold him, 
After me he still was gazing, 
O my sweetheart, my Algonquin ! 

"By the tree he still was standing, 
By the falling tree was standing, 
That had dropped into the water, 
O my sweetheart, my Algonquin ! 

"• When I think of my beloved, 
Ah me ! think of my beloved, 
When my heart is thinking of him, 
O my sweetheart, my Algonquin ! " 

Such was Hiawatha's wedding, 
Such the dance of Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Such the story of Iagoo, 
Such the songs of Chibiabos ; 
Thus the wedding banquet ended, 
And the wedding guests departed, 
Leaving Hiawatha happy 
With the night and Minnehaha. 

XIII. 

BLESSING THE COKNFIEEDS. 

Sing, O Song of Hiawatha, 

Of the happy days that followed, 

In the land of the Ojibways, 

In the pleasant land and peaceful ! 

Sing the mysteries of JVl ondamin, 

Sing the Blessing of the Cornfields ! 

Buried was the bloody hatchet, 
Buried was the dreadful war-club, 
Buried were all war-like weapons, 
And the war-cry was forgotten. 
There was peace among the nations ; 
Unmolested roved the hunters, 
Built the birch canoe for sailing. 
Caught the fish in lake and river, 
Shot the deer and trapped the beaver, 
Unmolested worked the women, 
Made their sugar from the maple, 
Gathered wild rice in the meadows, 
Dressed the skins of deer and beaver. 

All around the happy village 
Stood the maize-fields, green and shining, 
Waved the green plumes of Mondarnin, 
Waved his soft and sunny tresses, 
Filling all the land with plenty. 
'T was the women who in Spring-time 
Planted the broad fields and fruitful, 
Buried in the earth Mondarnin, 
'T was the women who in Autumn 
Stripped the yellow husks of harvest, 
Stripped the garments from Mondarnin, 
Even as Hiawatha taught them. 

Once, when all the maize w T as planted, 
Hiawatha, wise and thoughtful, 
Spake and said to Minnehaha, 
To his wife the Laughing Water : 
" You shall bless to-night the cornfields, 
Draw a magic circle round them, 
To protect them from destruction, 
Blast of mildew, blight of insect, • 
Wagemin, the thief of cornfields, 
Paimosaid, who steals the maize-ear ! 

14 In the night, when all is silence, 
In the night, when all is darkness, 
When the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwdn, 
Shuts the doors of all the wigwams, 
So that not an ear can hear you, 
So that not an eye can see you, 
Rise up from your bed in silence, 
Lay aside your garments wholly, 
Walk around the fields you planted, 
Round the borders of the cornfields, 
Covered by your tresses only, 
Robed with darkness as a garment. 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



137 



"Thus the fields shall be more fruitful, 
And the passing of your footsteps 
Draw a magic circle round them, 
So that neither blight nor mildew, 
Neither burrowing worm nor insect, 
Shall pass o'er the magic circle ; 
Not the dragon-fly, Kwo-ne-she, 
Nor the spider, Subbekashe, 
Nor the grasshopper, Pah-puk-keena, 
Nor the mighty caterpillar, 
Way-muk-kwana, with the bear-skin, 
King of all the caterpillars ! " 

On the tree-tops near the cornfields 
Sat the hungry crows and ravens, 
Kahgahgee, the King of Ravens, 
With his band of black marauders. 
And they laughed at Hiawatha, 
Till the tree-tops shook with laughter, 
With their melancholy laughter, 
At the words of Hiawatha. 

" Hear him ! " said they ; " hear the Wise Man, 
Hear the plots of Hiawatha ! " 

Whan the noiseless night descended 
Broad and dark o'er field and forest, 
When the mournful Wawonaissa, 
Sorrowing sang among the hemlocks, 
And the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin, 
Shut the doors of all the wigwams, 
From her bed rose Laughing Water, 
Laid aside her garments wholly, 
And with darkness clothed and guarded, 
Unashamed and unaffrighted, 
Walked securely round the cornfields, 
Drew the sacred, magic circle 
Of her footprints round the cornfields. 

No one but the Midnight only 
Saw her beauty in the darkness, 
No one but the Wawonaissa 
Heard' the panting of her bosom ; 
Guskewau, the darkness, wrapped her 
Closely in his sacred mantle, 
So that none might see her beauty. 
So that none might boast, "I saw her ! " 

On the morrow, as the day dawned, 
Kahgahgee, the King of Ravens, 
Gathered all his black marauders, 
Crows and blackbirds, jays and ravens, 
Clamorous on the dusky tree-tops, 
And descended, fast and fearless, 
On the fields of Hiawatha, 
On the grave of the Moudamin. 

" We will drag Mondamin," said they, 
" From the grave where he is buried, 
Spite of all the magic circles 
Lvighing Water draws around it, 
Spite of all the sacred footprints 
Minnehaha stamps upon it ! " 

But the wary Hiawatha, 
Ever thoughtful, careful, watchful, 
Had o'er heard the scornful laughter, 
When they mocked him from the tree-tops. 
"Kaw ! " he said, " my friends the ravens ! 
Kahgahgee, my King of Ravens ! 
I will teach you all a lesson 
That shall not be soon forgotten ! " 

He had risen before the daybreak, 
He had spread o'er all the cornfields 
Snares to catch the black marauders, 
And was lying now in ambush 
In the neighboring grove of pine-tress, 
Waiting for the crows and blackbirds, 
Waiting for the jays and ravens. 

Soon thej' came with caw and clamor, 
Rush of wings and cry of voices, 
To their work of devastation, 
Settling down upon the cornfields, 
Delving deep with beak and talon, 
For the body of Mondamin. 
And with all -their craft and cunning, 
All their skdl in wiles of warfare, 



They perceived no danger near them, 
, Till their claws became entangled, 
Till they found themselves imprisoned 
In the snares of Hiawatha. 

From his place of ambush came he, 
Striding terrible among them, 
And so awful was his aspect 
That the bravest quailed with terror. 
Without mercy he destroyed them 
Right and left, by tens and twenties, 
And their wretched, lifeless bodies 
Hung aloft on poles for scarecrows 
Round the consecrated cornfields, 
As a signal of his vengeance, 
As a warning to marauders. 

Only Kahgahgee, the leader, 
Kahgahgee, the King of Ravens, 
He alone was spared among them 
As a hostage for his people. 
With his prison er-strmg he bound him, 
Led him captive to his wigwam, 
Tied him fast with cords of elm -bark 
To the ridge-pole of his wigwam. 

"Kahgahgee, my raven ! " said he, 
" You the leader of the robbers, 
You the plotter of this mischief, 
The contriver of this outrage, 
I will keep you, I will hold you, 
As a hostage for your people, 
As a pledge of good behavior ! " 

And he left him, grim and sulky, 
Sitting in the morning sunshine 
On the summit of the wigwam, 
Croaking fiercely his displeasure, 
Flapping his great sable pinions. 
Vainly struggling for his freedom, 
Vainly calling on his people ! 

Summer passed, and Shawondasse 
Breathed his sighs o'er all the landscape, 
From the South-land sent his ardors, 
Wafted kisses warm and tender ; 
And the maize-field grew and ripened, 
Till it stood in all the splendor 
Of its garments green and yellow, 
Of its tassels and its plumage, 
And the maize-ears full and shining 
Gleamed from bursting sheaths of verdure. 

Then Nokomis. the eld woman, 
Spake, and said to Minnehaha : 
" 'T is the Moon when leaves are falling ; 
All the wild-rice has been gathered, 
And the maize is ripe and ready ; 
Let us gather in the harvest, 
Let us wrestle with Mondamin, 
Strip him of his plumes and tassels, 
Of his garments green and yellow ! " 

And the merry Laughing Water 
Went rejoicing from the wigwam, 
With Nokomis, old and wrinkled, 
And they called the women round them, 
Called the young men and the maidens, 
| To the harvest of the cornfields, 
i To the husking of the maize-ear. 

On the border of the forest, 
; Underneath the fragrant pine-trees, 
' Sat the old men and the warriors 
Smoking in the pleasant shadow. 
In uninterrupted silence 
Looked they at the gamesome labor 
Of the young men and the women ; 
Listened to their noisy talking. 
To their laughter and their singing. 
Heard them chattering like the magpies, 
Heard them laughing like the blue-jays, 
Heard them singing like the robins. 

And whene'er some lucky maiden 
Found a red ear in the husking. 
Found a maize-ear red as blood is, 
tk Nushka ! " cried they all together, 
" Nushka ! y ou shall have a sweetheart, 



138 



THE SOXG OF HIAWATHA. 



You shall have a handsome husband ! " 
41 Ugh ! " the old men all responded 
Prom their seats beneath the pine-trees. 

And whene'er a youth or maiden 
Found a crooked ear in husking, 
Found a maize-ear in the husking 
Blighted, mildewed, or misshapen, 
Then they laughed and sang together, 
Crept and limped about the cornfields, 
Mimicked in their gait and gestures 
Some old man, bent almost double, 
Singing singly or together : 
" Wagemin, the thief of cornfields ! 
Paimosaid, who steals the maize-ear ! " 

Till the cornfields rang with laughter, 
Till from Hiawatha's wigwam 
Kahgahgee, the King of Ravens, 
Screamed and quivered in his anger, 
And from all the neighboring tree-tops 
Cawed and croaked the black marauders. 
" Ugh ! " the old men ail responded, 
From their seats beneath the pine-trees ! 



XIV. 

PICTURE-WRITING. 

In those days said Hiawatha, 

" Lo ! how all things fade and perish ! 

From the memory of the old men 

Pass away the great traditions, 

The achievements of the warriors, 

The adventures of the hunters, 

All the wisdom of the Medas, 

All the craft of the Wabenos, 

All the marvellous dreams and visions 

Of the Jossakeeds, the Prophets ! 

u Great men die and are forgotten, 
"Wise men speak ; their words of wisdom 
Perish in the ears that hear them, 
Do not reach the generations 
That, as yet unborn, are waiting 
In the great, mysterious darkness 
Of the speechless days that shall be ! 

" On the grave-posts of our fathers 
Are no signs, no figures painted ; 
Who are in those graves we know not, 
Only know they are our fathers. 
Of what kith they are and kindred, 
From what old, ancestral Totem, 
Be it Eagle, Bear, or Beaver, 
They descended, this we know not, 
Only know they are our fathers. 

" Face to face we speak together, 
But we cannot speak when absent, 
Cannot send our voices from us 
To the friends that dwell afar off ; 
Cannot send a secret message, 
But the bearer learns our secret, 
May pervert it, may betray it, 
May reveal it unto others." 

Thus said Hiawatha, walking 
In the solitary forest, 
Pondering, musing in the forest, 
On the welfare of his people. 

From his pouch he to took his colors, 
Took his paints of different colors, 
On the smooth bark of a birch-tree 
Painted many shapes and figures, 
Wonderful and mystic figures, 
And each figure had a meaning, 
Each some word or thought suggested. 

Gitche Manito the Mighty, 
He, the Master of Life, was painted 
As an egg, with points projecting 
To the four winds of the heavens. 
Everywhere is the Great Spirit, 
Was the meaning of this symbol. 

Mitche Manito the Mighty, 
He the dreadful Spirit of Evil. 



As a serpent was depicted, 

As Kenabeek, the great serpent. 

Very crafty, very cunning, 

Is the creeping Spirit of Evil, 

Was the meaning of this symbol. 

Life and Death he drew as circles, 
Life was white, but Death was darkened; 
Sun and moon and stars he painted, 
Man and beast, and fish and reptile, 
Forests, mountains, lakes, and rivers. 

For the earth he drew a straight line, 
For the sky a bow above it ; 
White the space between for daytime, 
Filled with little stars for night-time ; 
On the left a point for sunrise, 
On the right a point for sunset, 
On the top a point for noontide 
And for rain and cloudy weather 
Waving lines descending from it. 

Footprints pointing towards a wigwam 
Were a sign of invitation, 
Were a sign of guests assembling ; 
Bloody hands with palms uplifted 
Were a symbol of destruction, 
Were a hostile sign and symbol. 

All these things did Hiawatha 
Show unto his wondering people, 
And interpreted their meaning, 
And he said : u Behold, your grave-posts 
Have no mark, no sign, nor symbol. 
Go and paint them all with figures ; 
Each one" with its household symbol, 
With its own ancestral Totem ; 
So that those who follow after 
May distinguish them and know them." 

And they painted on the grave-posts 
On the graves yet unforgotten, 
Each his own ancestral Totem, 
Each the symbol of his household ; 
Figures of the Bear and Reindeer, 
Of the Turtle, Crane, and Beaver, 
Each inverted as a token 
That the owner was departed, 
That the chief who bore the symbol 
Lay beneath in dust and ashes. 

And the Jossakeeds, the Prophets, 
The Wabenos, the Magicians, 
And the Medicine-men, the Medas, 
Painted upon bark and deer-skin 
Figures for the songs they chanted, 
For each song a separate' symbol, 
Figures mystical and awful 
Figures strange and brightly colored ; 
And each figure had its meaning. 
Each some magic song suggested. 

The Great Spirit, the Creator, 
Flashing light through all the heaven -, 
The great Serpent, the Kenabeek, 
With his bloody crest erected, 
Creeping, looking into heaven ; 
In the sky the sun, that listens, 
And the moon eclipsed and dying ; 
Owl and eagle, crane and hen-hawk, 
And the cormorant, bird of magic ; 
Headless men, that walk the heavens, 
Bodies lying pierced with arrows, 
Bloody hands of death uplifted, 
Flags on graves, and great war-captains 
Grasping both the earth and heaven ! 

Such as these the shapes, they painted 
On the birch-bark and deer-skin ; 
Songs of war and songs of hunting, 
Songs of medicine and of magic, 
All were written in these figures, 
For each figure had its meaning, 
Each its separate song recorded. 

Nor forgotten was the Love-Song, 
The most subtle of all medicine 
The most potent spell of magic, 
Dangerous more than war or hunting ! 
Thus the Love-Song was recorded, 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



139 



Symbol and inter pretatation. 

First a human figure standing 
Painted in the brightest scarlet ; 
'T is the lover, the musician, 
And the meaning is, " My painting 
Makes me powerful over others/' 

Then the figure seated, singing, 
Playing on a drum of magic, 
An i the interpretation, "Listen ! 
"£ is my voice you hear, my singing ! " 

Then the same red figure seated 
In the shelter of a wigwam, 
And the meaning of the symbol, 
ik I will come and sit beside you 
In the mystery of my passion !" 

Then two figures, man and woman, 
Standing hand in hand together 
With their hands so clasped together 
That they seem in one united, 
And the words thus represented 
Are, l ' I see your heait within you, 
And your cheeks are red with blushes ! " 

Next the maiden on an island, 
In the centre of an island ; 
And the song this shape suggested 
Was, " Though you were at a distance, 
Were upon some f ar-oft' island, 
Such the spell I cast upon you, 
Such the magic power of passion, 
I could straightway draw you to me ! " 
Then the figure of the maiden 



Sleeping, and the lover near her, 
Whispering to her in her slumbers, 
Saving, " Though you were far from me 
In'theland of Sleep and Silence, 
Still the voice of love would reach you ! " 

And the last of all the figures 
Was a heart within a circle, 
Drawn within a magic ciic'e ; 
And the image had this meaning : 
' ' Naked lies your heart before me, 
To your naked heart I whisper ! " 

Thus it was that Hiawatha, 
In his wisdom, taught the people 
All the mysteries of painting, 
All the art of Picture-Writing, 
On the smooth bark of the birch-tree, 
On the white skin of the reindeer, 
On the grave-posts of the village. 



XV. 

HIAWATHA'S LAMENTATION. 

In those days the Evil Spirits, 
All the Manitos of mischief, 
Fearing Hiawatha's wisdom, 
And h:s love for Chibiabos, 
Jealous of their faithful friendship, 
And their noble words and actions, 




Broke the treacherous iee beneath him. 



140 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



Made at length a league against them, 
To molest them and destroy them. 

Hiawatha, wise and wary, 
Often said to Chibiabos, 
'• O my brother ! do not leave me, 
Lest the Evil Spirits harm you ! " 
Chibiabos, young and heedless, 
Laughing shook his coal-black tresses, 
Answered ever sweet and childlike, 
11 Do not fear for me, O brother ! 
Harm and evil come not near me ! " 

Once when Peboan, the Winter, 
Roofed with ice the Big-Sea-Water, 
When the snow-flakes, whirling downward, 
Hissed among the withered oak-leaves, 
Changed the pine-trees into wigwams, 
Covered all the earth with silence, — 
Armed with arrows, shod with snow-shoes, 
Heeding not his brother's warning, 
Fearing not the Evil Spirits, 
Forth to hunt the deer with antlers 
All alone went Chibiabos. 

Right across the Big-Sea- W^ater 
Sprang with speed the deer before him. 
With the wind and snow he followed, 
O'er the treacherous ice he followed, 
Wild with all the fierce commotion 
And the rapture of the hunting. 

But beneath, the EvjI Spirits 
Lay in ambush, waiting for him, 
Broke the treacherous ice beneath him, 
Dragged him downward to the bottom, 
Buried in the sand his body. 
Unktahee, the god of water, 
He the god of the Dacotahs, 
Drowned him in the deep abysses 
Of the lake of Gitche Gumee. 

From the headlands Hiawatha 
Sent forth such a wail of anguish, 
Such a fearful lamentation, 
That the bison paused to listen, 
And the wolves howled from the prairies, 
And the thunder in the distance 
Starting answered, lt Baim-wawa ! " 

Then his face with black he painted, 
With his robe his head he covered. 
In his wigwam sat lamenting. 
Seven long weeks he sat lamenting, 
Uttering still this moan of sorrow : — 

" He is dead, the sweet musician ! 
He the sweetest of all singers ! 
He has gone from us forever, 
He has moved a little nearer 
To the Master of all music, 
To the Master of all singing ! 
O my brother, Chibiabos ! " 

And the melancholy fir-trees 
Waved their dark green fans above him, 
Waved their purple cones above him, 
Sighing with him to console him, 
Mingling with his lamentation 
Their complaining, their lamenting. 

Came the Spring, and all the forest 
Looked in vain for Chibiabos ; 
Sighed the rivulet, Sebowisha, 
Sighed the rushes in the meadow. 

From the tree-tops sang the bluebird, 
Sang the bluebird, the Owaissa, 
u Chibiabos ! Chibiabos ! 
He is dead, the sweet musician ! " 

From the wigwam sang the robin, 
Sang the robin, the Opechee, 
" Chibiabos ! Chibiabos ! 
He is dead, the sweetest singer ! " 

And at night through all the forest 
Went the whippoorwill complaining, 
Wailing went the Wawonaissa, 
" Chibiabos ! Chibiabos ! 
He is dead, the sweet musician ! 
He the sweetest of all singers ! " 

Then the medicine-men, the Medas, 



The magicians, the Wabenos, 
And the Jossakeeds, the prophets, 
Came to visit Hiawatha ; 
Built a Sacred Lodge beside him, 
To appease him, to console him, 
Walked in silent, grave procession, 
Bearing each a pouch of healing, 
Skin of beaver, lynx, or otter, 
Filled with magic roots and simples, 
Filled with very potent medicines. 

When he heard their steps approaching, 
Hiawatha ceased lamenting, 
Called no more on Chibiabos ; 
Naught he questioned, naught he answered, 
But his mournful head, uncovered, 
From his face the mourning colors 
Washed he slowly and in silence, 
Slowly and in silence followed 
Onward to the Sacred Wigwam. 

There a magic drink they gave him, 
Made of Nahma-wusk, the spearmint, 
And Wabeno-wusk, the yarrow, 
Roots of power, and herbs of healing ; 
Beat their drums, and shook their rattles ; 
Chanted singly and in chorus, 
Mystic songs like these, they chanted. 

" I myself, myself ! behold me ! 
| 'T is the great Gray Eagle talking ; 
Come, ye white crows, come and hear him ! 
The loud-speaking thunder helps me ; 
All the unseen spirits help me ; 
I can hear their voices calling, 
All around the sky I hear them ! 
I can blow you strong, my brother, 
I can heal you, Hiawatha ! " 

"Hi-au-ha ! " replied the chorus, 
Way-ha-way ! " the mystic chorus. 

"Friends of mine are all the serpents ! 
Hear me shake my skin of hen-hawk ! 
Mahng, the white loon, I can kill hinl ; 
I can shoot your heart and kill it ! 
I can blow you strong, my brother, 
I can heal you, Hiawatha ! " 

"Hi-au-ha ! " replied the chorus, 
u Way-ha-way ! " the mystic chorus. 

" I myself, myself ! the prophet ! 
When I speak the wigwam trembles, 
Shakes the Sacred Lodge with terror, 
Hands unseen begin to shake it ! 
When I walk, the sky I tread on 
Bends and makes a noise beneath me ! 
I can blow you strong, my brother ! 
Rise and speak, O Hiawatha ! " 

ll Hi-au-ha ! " replied the chorus. 
" Way-ha-way ! " the mystic chorus. 

Then they shook their medicine-pouches 
O'er the head of Hiawatha. 
Danced their medicine-dance around him ; 
And upstarting wild and haggard, 
Like a man from dreams awakened, 
He was healed of all his madness. 
As the clouds are swept from heaven, 
Straightway from his brain departed 
All his moody melancholy ; 
As the ice is swept from rivers, 
Straightway from his heart departed 
All his sorrow and affliction. 

Then they summoned Chibiabos 
From his grave beneath the waters, 
From the sands of Gitche Gumee 
Summoned Hiawatha's brother. 
And so mighty was the magic 
Of that cry and invocation, 
That he heard it as he lay there 
Underneath the Big-Sea-Water ; 
From the sand he rose and listened, 
Heard the music and the singing, 
Came, obedient to the summons, 
To the doorway of the wigwam, 
But to enter they forbade him. 

Through a chink a coal they gave him, 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 141 


Through the door a burning fire-brand ; 


Of Ojeeg, the Summer-Maker, 


Ruler in the Land of Spirits, 


How he made a hole in heaven, 


Ruler o'er the deul, they made him, 


How he climbed up into heaven, 


Telling him a fire to kindle 


And let out the summer-weather, 


For all those that died thereafter, 


The perpetual pleasant Summer; 


Camp-fires for their night encampments 


How the Otter first essayed it ; 


On their solitary journey 


How the Beaver, Lynx, and Badger 


To the kingdom of Ponemah, 


Tried in turn the great achievement, 


To the land of the Hereafter. 


From the summit of the mountain 


Prom the village of his childhood, 


Smote their fists against the heavens, 


From the homes of those who knew him, 


Smote against the sky their foreheads. 


Passing silent through the forest, 


Cracked the sky, but could not break it ; 


Like a smoke-wreath wafted sideways, 


How the Wolverine, uprising. 


Slowly vanished Chibiabos ! 


Made him ready for the encounter. 


Where he pas-eel, the branches moved not, 


Bent his knees down, like a squirrel, 


Where he trod, the grasses bent not, 


Drew his arms back, like a cricket. 


And the fallen leaves of last year 


" Once he leaped," said old Iagoo, 


Made no sound beneath his footsteps. 


" Once he leaped, and lo ! above him 


Four whole days he journeyed onward 


Bent the sky, as ice in rivers 


Down the pathway of the dead men ; 


W r hen the waters rise beneath it ; 


On the dead-man's strawberry feasted, 


Twice he leaped, and lo ! above him 


Crossed the melancholy river, 


Cracked the sky, as ice in rivers 


On the swinging log he crossed it, 


When the freshet is at highest ! 


Came unto the Lake of Silver, 


Thrice he leav ed, and lo ! above him 


In the Stone Canoe was carried 


Broke the shattered sky asunder, 


To the Islands of the Blessed, 


And he disappeared within it, 


To the land of ghosts and shadows. 


And Ojeeg, the Fisher Weasel, 


On that journey, moving slowly, 


With a bound went in behind him ! " 


Miny weary spirits saw he, 


" Hark you ! " shouted Pau-Puk-Keewis 


Panting under heavy burdens, 


As he entered at the doorway ; 


Laden with war-clubs, bows and arrows, 


11 1 am tired of all this talking, 


Robes of fur, and pots and kettles, 


Tired of old Iagoo's stories, 


And with food that friends had given 


Tired of Hiawatha's wisdom. 


For that solitary journey. 


Here is something to amuse you. 


"Ay ! why do the living,'" said they 


Better than this endless talking." 


"Lay such heavy burdens on us ! 


Then from oi^t his pouch of wolf-skin 


Better were it to go naked, 


Forth he drew, with solemn manner, 


Better were it to go fasting, 


All the game of Bowl and Counters, 


Than to bear such heavy burdens 


Pugasaing, with thirteen pieces. 


On our long and weary journey ! " 


White on one side were they painted, 


Forth then issued Hiawatha, 


And vermilion on the other; 


Wandered eastward, wandered westward, 


Two Kenabeeks or great serpents, 


Teaching men the use of simples 


Two Ininewng or wedge-men. 


And the antidotes for poisons, 


One great war-club, Pugamaugun, 


And the cure of all diseases. 


And one slender fish, the Keego, 


Thus was first made known to mortals 


Four round pieces, Ozawabeeks, 


All the mystery of Medamin, 


And three Sheshebwug or ducklings. 


All the sacred art of healing 


All were made of bone and painted, 




All except the Ozawabeeks ; 




These were brass, on one side burnished, 


XVI. 


And were black upon the other. 




In a wooden bowl he placed them, 


PAU-PUK-KEEWIS. 


Shook and jostled them together. 




Threw them on the ground before him. 


You shall hear how Pau-Puk-Keawis 


Tims exclaiming and explaining : 


He, the handsome Yenadizze, 


i'Red side up are all the pieces. 


Whom the people called the Storm Fool. 


And one great Kenabeek standing 


Vexed the village with disturbance; 


On the bright side of a brass piece, 


You shall hear of all his mischief, 


On a burnished Ozawabeck : 


And his flight from Hiawatha, 


Thirteen tens and eight are counted." 


And his wondrous transmigrations, 


Then again he shook the pieces, 


And the end of his adventures. 


Shook and jostled them together, 


On the shores of Gitche G imee, 


Threw them on the ground before him, 


On the dunes of Nagow Wndjoo, 


Still exclaiming and explaining : 


By the shining Big-Sea- Water 


"White are both the great Kenabeeks, 


Stood the lodge of Pau-Puk-Keewis. 


White the Ininewug, the wedge-men. 


It was he who in his frenzy 


Red are all the other pieces ; 


Whirled these drifting sands together, 


Five tens and an eight are counted." 


On the dunes of Nagow Wudjoo, 


Thus he taught the game of hazard, 


Wnen, among the guests assembled, 


Thus displayed it and explained it. . 


He so merrily and madly 


Running through its various chances, 


Danced at Hiawatha's wedding, 


Various changes, various meanings : 


Danced the Beggar's Dance to please them. 


Twenty curious eyes stared at him. 


Now, in search of new adventures, 


Full of eagerness stared at him. 


From his lodge went Pau-Puk-Keewis, 


" Many games," said old Iagoo, 


Came with speed into the village, 


" Many games of skill and hazard 


Found the young men all assembled 


Have I seen in different nations, 


In the lodge of old Iagoo, 


Have I played in different countries. 


Listening to his monstrous stories, 


He who plays with old Iagoo 


To his wonderful adventures. 


Must have very nimble fingers ; 


He was telling them the story, 


Though you think yourself so skilful 



142 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



I can beat you, Pau-Puk-Keewis, 

I can even give you lessons 

Tn your game of Bowl and Counters ! " 

So they sat and played together, 
All the old men and the young men, 
Played for dresses, weapons, wampum, 
Played till midnight, played till morning, 
Played until the Yenadizze, 
Tilf the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Of their treasures had despoiled them, 
Of the best of all their dresses, 
Shirts of deer-skin, robes of ermine, 
Belts of wampum, crests of feathers, 
Warlike weapons, pipes and pouches. 
Twenty eyes glared wildly at him, 
Like the eyes of wolves glared at him. 

Said the lucky Pau-Puk-Keewis : 
" In my wigwam I am lonely, 
In my wanderings and adventures 
I have need of a companion, 
Fain would have a Meshinauwa, 
An attendant and pipe-bearer. 
I will venture all these winnings, 
All these garments heaped about me, 
All this wampum, all these feathers, 
On a single throw will venture 
All against the young man yonder ! " 
'T was a youth of sixteen summers, 
'T was a nephew of lagoo ; 
Face-in-a-Mist, the people called him. 

As the fire burns in a pipe-head 
Dusky red beneath the ashes, 
So beneath his shaggy eyebrows 
Glowed the eyes of old lagoo. 
"Ugh ! " he answered very fiercely ; 
" Ugh ! " they answered all and each one. 

Seized the wooden bowl the old man, 
Closely in his bony fingers 
Clutched the fatal bowl, Onagon, 
Shook it fiercely and with fury, 
Made the pieces ring together 
As he threw them down before him. 

Red were both the great Kenabeeks, 
Red the Ininewug, the wedge-men, 
Red the Sheshebwug. the ducklings, 
Black the four brass Ozawabeeks, 
White alone the fish, the Keego ; 
Only five the pieces counted ! 

Then the smiling Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Shook the bowl and threw the pieces ; 
Lightly in the air he tossed them, 
And they fell about him scattered ; 
Dark and bright the Ozawabeeks, 
Red and white the other pieces, 
And upright among the others 
One Ininewug was standing, 
Even as crafty Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Stood alone among the players, 
Saying, " Five tens ! mine the game is ! " 

Twenty eyes glared at him fiercely, 
Like the eyes of wolves glared at him, 
As he turned and left the wigwam, 
Followed by his Meshinauwa, 
By the nephew of lagoo, 
By the tad and graceful stripling, 
Bearing in his arms the winnings, 
Shirts of deer-skm, robes of ermine, 
Belts of wamoum, pipes and weapons. 

"Carry them," said Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Pointing with his fan of feathers, 
" To my wigwam far to eastward, 
On the dunes of Nagow Wudjoo ! " 

Hot and red with smoke and gambling 
Were the eyes of Pau-Puk-Keewis 
As he came forth to the freshness 
Of the pleasant Summer morning. 
All the birds were singing gayly, 
All the streamlets flowing swiftly, 
And the heart of Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Sang with pleasure as the birds sing, 
Beat with triumph like the streamlets, 



As he wandered through the village, 

In the early gray of morning, 

With his fan of turkey-feathers, 

With his plumes and tufts of swan's down, 

Till he reached the farthest wigwam, 

Reached the lodge of Hiawatha. 

Silent was it and deserted ; 
No one met him at the doorway, 
No one came to bid him welcome ; 
But the birds were singing round it, 
In and out and round the doorway, 
Hopping, singing, fluttering, feeding, 
And aloft upon the ridge-pole 
Kahgahgee, the King of Ravens, 
Sat with fiery eyes, and, screaming, 
Flapped his wings at Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

"All are gone ! the lodge is empty ! " 
Thus it was spake Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
In his heart resolving mischief ; — ■ 
"Gone is wary Hiawatha. 
Gone the silly Laughing Water, 
Gone Nokomis, the old woman, 
And the lodge is left unguarded ! " 

By the neck he seized the raven, 
Whirled it round him like a rattle, 
Like a medicine-pouch he shook it, 
Strangled Kahgahgee, the raven, 
From the ridge-pole of the wigwam 
Left its lifeless body hanging, 
As an insult to its master, 
As a taunt to Hiawatha. 

With a stealthy step he entered, 
Round the lodge in wild disorder 
Threw the household things about him, 
Piled together in confusion 
Bowls of wood and earthen kettles, 
Robes of buffalo and beaver, 
Skins of otter, lynx, and ermine, 
As an insult to Nokomis, 
As a taunt to Minnehaha. 

Then departed Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Whistling, singing through the forest, 
Whistling gayly to the squirrels, 
Who from hollow boughs above him 
Dropped their acorn-shells upon him, 
Singing gayly to the wood birds, 
Who from out the leafy darkness 
Answered with a song as merry. 

Then he climbed the rocky headlands, 
Looking o'er the Gitche Gumee, 
Perched himself upon their summit, 
Waiting full of mirth and mischief 
The return of Hiawatha. 

Stretched upon his back he lay there ; 
Far below him plashed the waters, 
Plashed and washed the dreamy waters ; 
Far above him swam the heavens, 
Swam the dizzy, dreamy heavens ; 
Round him hovered, fluttered, rustled, 
Hiawatha's mountain chickens, 
Flock-wise swept and wheeled about him, 
Almost brushed h"m with their pinions. 

And he killed them as he lay there, 
Slaughtered them by tens and twenties, 
Threw their bodies down the headland, 
Threw them on the beach below him, 
Till at length Kayoshk, the sea-gull, 
Perched upon a crag above them, 
Shouted : " It is Pau-Puk-Keewis ! 
He is slaying us by hundreds ! 
Send a message to our brother, 
Tidings send to Hiawatha ! " 



xvn. 

THE HUNTING OF PAU-PUK-KEEWL' 



Full of wrath was Hiawatha 
When he came into the village, 
Found the people in confusion, 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



143 



Heard of all the misdemeanors. 
All the malice and the mischief, 
Of the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

Hard his breath came through his nostrils, 
Through his teeth he buzzed and muttered 
Words of angei and resentment, 
Hot and humming, like a hornet. 
" I will slay this Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Slay this mischief-maker ! " said he. 
" Not so long and wide the world is, 
Not so rude and rough the way is, 
That my wrath shall not attain him, 
That my vengeance shall not reach him ! " 

Then in swift pursuit departed 
Hiawatha and the hunters 
On the trail of Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Through the forest, where he passed it, 
To the headlands where he rested ; 
But they found not Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Only in the trampled grasses, 
In the whortleberry-bushes, 
Found the couch where he had rested, 
Found the impress of his body. 

From the lowlands far beneath them, 
From the Muskoday, the meadow, 
Pau-Puk-Keewis, turning backward, 
Made a gesture of defiance, 
Made a gesture of derision ; 
And aloud cried Hiawatha, 
From the summit of the mountain : 
11 Not so long and wide the world is, 
Not so rude and rough the way is, 
But my wrath shall overtake you, 
And my vengeance shall attain you ! " 

Over rock and over river, 
Through bush, and brake, and forest, 
Ran the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis ; 
Like an antelope he bounded, 
Till he came unto a streamlet 
In the middle of the forest, 
To a streamlet still and tranquil, 
That had overflowed its margin, 
To a dam made by the beavers, 
To a pond of quiet water, 
Where knee-deep the trees were standing, 
Where the water-lilies floated, 
Where the rashes waved and whispered. 

On the dam stood Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
On the dam of trunks and branches, 
Through whose chinks the water spouted, 
O'er whose summit flowed the streamlet. 
From the bottom rose the beaver, 
Looked with two great eyes of wonder, 
Eyes that seemed to ask a question, 
At the stranger, Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

On the dam stood Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
O 'er his ankles flowed the streamlet, 
Flo we 1 the bright and silvery water, 
And he spake unto the beaver, 
With a smile he soake in this wise : 

u O my friend Ahmeek, the beaver, 
Cool and pleasant is the water ; 
Let me dive into the water. 
Let me rest there in your lodges ; 
Change me, too, into a beaver ! " 
.Cautiously replied the beaver, 
With reserve he thus made answer : 
"Let me first consult the others, 
Let me ask the oth^r beavers." 
Down he sank into the water, 
Heavily sank he, as a stone sinks, 
Down among the leaves and branches, 
Brown and matted at the bottom. 

On the dam stood Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
O'er his ankles flowed the streamlet, 
Spouted through the chinks below him, 
Dashel upon tue stones beneath him, 
Spread serene and calm before him, 
And the sunshine and the shadows 
Fell in flecks and gleams upon him, 
Fell in little shining patches, 



Through the waving, rustling branches. 

From the bottom rose the beavers, 
Silently above the surface 
Rose one head and then another, 
Till the pond seemed full of beavers, 
Full of black and shining faces. 

To the beavers Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Spake entreating, said in this wise : 
" Very pleasant is your dwelling, 
O my friends ! and safe from danger; 
Can you not with all your cunning, 
All your wisdom and contrivance, 
Change me, too, into a beaver ? " 

" Yes ! " replied Ahmeek, the beaver, 
He the King of all the beavers, 
"Let yourself slide down among us, 
Down into the tranquii water." 

Down into the pond among them 
Silently sank Pau-Puk-Keewis ; 
Black became his shirt of deer-skin, 
Black his moccasins and leggings, 
In a broad black tail behind him 
Spread his fox-tails and his fringes ; 
He was changed into a beaver. 

"Make me large," said Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
11 Make me large and make me larger, 
Larger than the other beavers." 
" Yes," the beaver chief responded, 
11 When our lodge below you enter, 
In our wigwam we will make you 
Ten times larger than the others." 

Thus into the clear, In-own water 
Silently sank Pau-Puk-Keewis : 
Found the bottom covered over 
With the trunks of trees and branches, 
Hoards of food against the winter, 
Piles and heaps against the famine, 
Found the lodge with arching doorway, 
Leading into spacious chambers. 

Here they made him large and larger, 
Made him largest of the beavers. 
Ten times larger than the others. 
11 You shall be our ruler," said they ; 
"Chief and king of all the beavers." 

But not long had Pau-Puk-Keevvis 
Sat in state among the beavers, 
When there came a voice of warning 
From the watchman at his station 
In the water-flags and lilies, 
Saying, " Here is Hiawatha ! 
Hiawatha with his hunters ! " 

Then they heard a cry above them, 
Heard a shouting and a tramping, 
Heard a crashing and a rushing, 
And the water round and o'er them 
Sank and sucked away in eddies, 
And they knew their dam was broken. 

On the lodge's roof the hunters 
Leaped, and broke it all asunder ; 
Streamed the sunshine through the crevice, 
Sprang the beavers through the doorway, 
Hid themselves in deeper water, 
In the channel of the streamlet ; 
But the mighty Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Could not pass beneath the doorway ; 
He was puffed with pride and feeding, 
He was swollen like a bladder. 

Through the roof looked Hiawatha, 
Cried aloud, " O Pau-Puk-Keewis ! 
Vain are all your craft and cunning, 
Vain your manifold disguises ! 
Well I know you, Pau-Puk-Keewis ! " 

With their clubs they beat and bruised him, 
Beat to death poor Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Pounded him as maize is pounded, 
Till his skull was crushed to pieces. 

Six tall hunters, lithe and limber, 
Bore him home on poles and branches, 
Bore the body of the beaver ; 
But the ghost, the Jeebi in him. 
Thought and felt as Pau-Puk-Keewis, 



144 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



Still lived on as Pau-Puk Keewis. 

And it fluttered, strove, and struggled, 
Waving hither, waving thither. 
As the curtains of a wigwam 
Struggle with their thongs of deer-skin, 
When the wintry wind is blowing ; 
Till it drew itself together. 
Till it rose up from the body, 
Till it took the form and features 
Of the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Vanishing into the forest. 

But the wary Hiawatha 
Saw the figure ere it vanished, 
Saw the form of Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Glide into the soft blue shadow 
Of the pine-trees of the forest ; 
Toward the squares of white beyond it, 
Toward an opening in the forest, 
Like a wind it rushed and panted, 
Bending all the boughs before it, 
And behind it, as the rain comes, 
Came the steps of Hiawatha. 

To a lake with many islands 
Came the breathless Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Where among the water-lilies 
Pishnekuh, the brant, were sailing ; 
Through the tufts of rushes floating, 
Steering through the reedy islands. 
Now their broad black beaks they lifted, 
Now they plunged beneath the water, 
Now they darkened in the shadow, 
Now they brightened in the sunshine. 

wt Pishnekuh ! " cried Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
" Pishnekuh ! my brothers ! " said he, 
"Change me to a brant with plumage, 
With a shining neck and feathers, 
Make me large, and make me larger 
Ten times larger than the others." 

Straightway to a brant they changed him, 
With two huge and dusky pinions, 
With a bosom smooth and rounded, 
With a bill like two great paddles, 
Made him larger than the others, 
Ten times larger than the largest, 
Just as, shouting from the forest, 
On the shore stood Hiawatha. 

Up they rose with cry and clamor, 
With a whir and beat of pinions, 
Rose up from the reedy islands, 
Prom the water-flags and lilies. 
And they said to Pau-Puk-Keewis : 
" In your flying, look not downward, 
Take good heed, and look not downward, 
Lest some strange mischance should happen, 
Lest some great mishap befall you ! " 

Fast and far they fled to northward, 
Fast and far through mist and sunshine, 
Fed among the moors and fen-lands, 
Slept among the reeds and rushes. 

On the morrow as they journeyed, 
Buoyed and lifted by the South-wind, 
Wafted onward by the South-wind, 
Blowing fresh and strong behind them, 
Rose a sound of human voices, 
Rose a clamor from beneath them, 
From the lodges of a village, 
From the people miles beneath them. 

For the people of the village 
Saw the flock of brant with wonder, 
Saw the wings of Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Flapping far up in the ether, 
Broader than two doorway curtains. 

Pau-Puk-Keewis heard the shouting, 
Knew the voice of Hiawatha, 
Knew the outcry of Iagoo, 
And, forgetful of the warning, 
Drew his neck in, and looked downward. 
And the wind that blew behind him 
Caught his mighty fan of feathers, 
Sent him wheeling, whirling downward ! 
All in vain did Pau-Puk-Keewis 



Struggle to regain his balance ! 

Whirling round and round and downward, 

He beheld in turn the village 

And in turn the flock above him, 

Saw the village coming nearer, 

And the flock receding farther, 

Heard the voices growing louder, 

Heard the shouting and the laughter ; 

Saw. no more the flock above him, 

Only saw the earth beneath him ; 

Dead out of the empty heaven. 

Dead among the shouting people, 

With a heavy sound and sullen, 

Fell the brant with broken pinions. 

But his soul, his ghost, his shadow, 
Still survived as Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Took again the form and features 
Of the handsome Yenadizze, 
And again went rushing onward, 
Followed fast by Hiawatha, 
Crying : " Not so wide the world is, 
Not so long and rough the way is, 
But my wrath shall overtake you, 
But my vengeance shall attain you! " 

And so near he came, so near him, 
That his hand was stretched to seize him, 
His right hand to seize and hold him, 
When the cunning Pau-Puk- Keewis 
Whirled and spun about in circles, 
Fanned the air into a whirlwind. 
Danced the dust and leaves about him, 
And amid the whirling eddies 
Sprang into a hollow oak-tree, 
Changed himself into a serpent, 
Gliding out through root and rubbish. 

With his right hand Hiawatha 
Smote amain the hollow oak-tree, 
Rent it into shreds and splinters, 
Left it lying there in fragments. 
But in vain ; for Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Once again in human figure, 
Full in sight ran on before him, 
Sped away in gust and whirlwind, 
On the shores of Gitche Gumee, 
Westward by the Big-Sea-Water, 
Came unto the rocky headlands, 
To the Pictured Rocks of sandstone, 
Looking over lake and landscape. 

And the Old Man of the Mountain, 
He the Manito of Mountains, 
Opened wide his rock}*- doorways, 
Opened wide his deep abysses, 
Giving Pau-Puk-Keew 7 is shelter 
In his caverns dark and dreary, 
Bidding Pau-Puk-Keewis welcome 
To his gloomy lodge of sandstone. 

There without stood Hiawatha, 
Found the doorways closed against him, 
With his mittens, Minjekahwun, 
Smote great caverns in the sandstone, 
Cried aloud in tones of thunder, 
vv Open ! I am Hiawatha ! " 
But the Old Man of the Mountain 
Opened not, and made no answer 
From the silent crags of sandstone, 
From the gloomy rock abysses. 

Then he raised his hands to heaven, 
Called imploring on the tempest, 
Called Waywassimo, the lightning, 
And the thunder, Annemeekee ; 
And they came with night and darkness, 
Sweeping clown the Big-Sea-Water 
From the distant Thunder Mountains ; 
And the trembling Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Heard the footsteps of the thunder, 
Saw the red eyes of the lightning. 
Was afraid, and crouched and trembled. 

Then Waywassimo, the lightning, 
j Smote the doorways of the caverns, 
' With his w r ar-club smote the doorways, 
I temote the jutting crags of sandstone, 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



14." 



And the thunder, Annemeekee, 
Shouted down into the caverns, 
Saying, " Where is Pau-Puk-Keewis ! " 
And the crags fell, and beneath them 
Dead among the rocky ruins 
Lay the canning Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Lay the handsome Yenadizze, 
Slain in his own human figure. 

Ended were his wild adventures, 
Ended were his tricks and gambols, 
Ended all his craft and cunnir g, 
Eided all his mischief-making, 
All his gambling and his dancing, 
All his wooing of the maidens. 

Then the noble Hiawatha 
Took his soul, his ghost, his shadow, 
Spake and said : l> O Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
.Never more in human figure 
Shall you search for new adventures ; 
Never more with jest and laughter 
Dance the dust and leaves in whirlwinds ; 
But above there in the heavens 
You shall soar and sail in circles ; 
I will change you to an eagle, 
To Keneu, the great war-eagle, 
Chief of all the fowls with feathers, 
Chief of Hiawatha's chickens." 

And the name of Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Lingers still among the people, 
Lingers still among the singers, 
And among the story-tellers ; 
And in Winter, when the snow-flakes 
Whirl in eddies round the lodges, 
When the wind in gusty tumult 
O'er the smoke-flue pipes and whistles, 
t; Tnere," they cry, u comes Pau-Puk-Keewis: 
He is dancing through the village, 
He is gathering in his harvest ! " 



XVIII. 



THE DEATH OF KWASIND. 

Far and wide among the nations 
Spread the name and fame of Kwasind ; 
No man dared to strive with Kwasind, 
No man could compete with Kwasind. 
But the mischievous Puk-Wudjies, 
They the envious Little People, 
They the fairies and the pygmies, 
Plotted and conspired against him. 

" If this hateful Kwasind," said they, 
''If this great, outrageous fellow 
Goes on thus a little longer, 
Tearing everything he touches, 
Rending everything to pieces, 
Filling all the world with wonder. 
What becomes of the Puk-Wudjies ? 
Who will care for the Puk-Wudjies ? 
He will tread us down like mushrooms, 
Drive us all into the water, 
Give our bodies to be eaten 
By the wicked Nee-ba-naw-baigs, 
By the Spirits of the water ! " 

So the angry Little People 
All conspired against the Strong Man, 
All conspired to murder Kwasind, 
Yes, to rid the world of Kwasind, 
Tne audacious, overbearing, 
Heartless, haughty, dangerous Kwasind ! 

Now this wondrous strength of Kwasind 
In his crown alone was seated ; 
In his crown too was his weakness ; 
There alone could he be wounded, 
Nowhere else could weapon pierce him, 
Nowhere else could weapon harm him. 

Even there the only weapon 
That could wound him, that could slay him, 
Was the seed-cone of the pine-tree, 
Was the blue cone of the fir-tree. 
10 



This was Kwasind' s fatal secret, 
Known to no man among mortals , 
But the cunning Little People, 
The Puk-Wudjies, knew the secret, 
Knew the only way to kill him. 

So they gathered cones together, 
Gathered seed-cones of the pine-tree, 
Gathered blue cones of the fir-tree, 
In the woods by Taquamenaw, 
Brought them to the river's margin, 
Heaped them in great piles together, 
Where the red rocks from the margin 
Jutting overhang the river. 
There they lay in wait for Kwasind, 
The malicious Little People. 

'T was an afternoon in Summer ; 
Very hot and still the air was, 
Very smooth the gliding river, 
Motionless the sleeping shadows : 
Insects glistened in the sunshine, 
Insects skated on the water. 
Filled the drowsy air with buzzing, 
With a far resounding war-cry. 

Down the river came the Strong Man, 
In his«birch canoe came Kwasind, 
Floating slowly down the current 
Of the sluggish Taquamenaw, 
Very languid with the weather, 
Very sleepy with the silence. 

From the overhanging branches, 
From the tassels of the birch- trees, 
Soft the Spirit of Sleep descended ; 
By his airy hosts surrounded, 
His invisible attendants, 
Came the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin ; 
Like the burnished Dush-kwo-ne-she, 
Like a dragon-fly, he hovered 
O'er the drowsy head of Kwasind. 

To his ear there came a murmur 
As of waves upon a sea-shore, 
As of far-off tumbling waters, 
As of winds among the pine-trees; 
And he felt upon his forehead 
Blows of little airy war-clubs, 
Wielded by the slumbrous legions 
Of the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin, 
As of some one breathing on him. 

At the first blow of their war-clubs, 
Fell a drowsiness on Kwasind; 
At the second blow they smote him, 
Motionless his paddle rested ; 
At the third, before his vision 
Reeled the landscape into darkness, 
Very sound asleep was Kwasind. 

So he floated down the river. 
Like a blind man seated upright, 
Floated down the Taquamenaw, 
Underneath the trembliug birch-trees, 
Underneath the wooded headlands, 
Underneath the war encampment 
Of the pygmies, the Puk-Wudjies. 

There they stood, all armed and waiting, 
Hurled the pine-cones down upon him, 
Struck him on his brawny shoulders, 
On his crown defenceless struck him. 
"• Death to Kwasind ! " was the sudden 
War-cry of the Little People. 

And he sideways sw^ayed and tumbled, 
Sideways fell into the river, 
Plunged beneath the sluggish water 
Headlong, as the otter plunges ; 
And the birch-canoe, abandoned, 
Drifted empty down the river. 
Bottom upward swerved and drifted : 
Nothing more was seen of Kwasind. 

But the memory of the Strong Man 
Lingered long among the people, 
And whenever through the forest 
Raged and roared the wintry tempest, 
And the branches, tossed and troubled, 
Creaked and groaned and split asunder, 



146 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



" Kwasind ! " cried they ; "that is Kwasind ! 
He is gathering in his tire-wood ! " 

XIX. 

THE GHOSTS. 

Never stoops the soaring vulture 

On his quarry in the deseit, 

On the sick or wounded bison, 

But another vulture, watching 

From his high aerial look-out, 

Sees the downward plunge, and follows ; 

And a third pursues the second, 

Coming from the invisible ether, 

First a speck, and then a vulture, 

Till the air is dark with pinions. 

So disasters come not singly ; 
But as if they watched and waited, 
Scanning one another's motions, 
When the first descends, the others 
Follow, follow, gathering flock-wise 
Round their victim, sick and wounded, 
First a shadow, then a sorrow, 
Till the air is dark with anguish. 

Now, o'er all the dreary Northland, 
Mighty Peboan, the Winter, 
Breathing on the lakes and rivers, 
Into stone had changed their waters. 
From his hair he shook the snow-flakes, 
Till the plains were strewn with whiteness, 
One uninterrupted level, 
As if, stooping, the Creator 
With his hand had smoothed them over. 

Through the forest, wide and wailing, 
Roamed the hunter on his snow-shoes ; 
In the village worked the women, 
Pounded maize, or dressed the deer-skin ; 
And the young men played together 
On the ice the noisy ball-play, 
On the plain the dance of snow-shoes. 

One dark evening, after sundown, 
In her wigwam Laughing Water 
Sat with old Nokomis, waiting 
For the steps of Hiawatha 
Homeward from the hunt returning. 

On their faces gleamed the fire-light, 
Painting them with streaks of crimson, 
In the eyes of old Nokomis 
Glimmered like the watery moonlight, 
In the eyes of Laughing Water 
Glistened like the sun in water ; 
And behind them crouched their shadows 
In the corners of the wigwam, 
And the smoke in wreaths above them 
Climbed and crowded through the smoke-flue. 

Then the curtain of the doorway 
From without was slowly lifted ; 
Brighter glowed the fire a moment, 
And a moment swerved the smoke- wreath, 
As two women entered softly, 
Passed the doorway uninvited, 
Without word of salutation, 
Without sign of recognition, 
Sat down in the farthest corner, 
Crouching low among the shadows. 

From their aspect and their garments, 
Strangers seemed they in the village ; 
Very pale and haggard were they, 
As they sat there sad and silent, 
Trembling, cowering with the shadows. 

Was it the wind above the smoke -flue, 
Muttering down into the wigwam ? 
Was it the owl, the Koko-koho, 
Hooting from the dismal forest V 
Sure a voice said in the silence : 
" These are corpses clad in garments, 
These are ghosts that come to haunt you, 
From the kingdom of Ponemah, 
From the land of the Hereafter ! " 



Homeward now came Hiawatha 
I From his hunting in the forest, 
With the snow uoon his tresses, 
And the red deer on his shoulders. 
At the feet of Laughing Water 
Down he threw his lifeless burden ; 
Nobler, handsomer she thought him, 
j Than when first he came to woo her, 
I First threw down the deer before her, 
As a token of his wishes, 
As a promise of the future. 

Then he turned and saw the strangers, 
Cowering,. crouching with the shadows ; 
Said within himself, " Who are they ? 
What strange guests has Minnehaha ? " 
But he questioned not the strangers, 
Only spake to bid them welcome 
To his lodge, his food, his fireside. 

When the evening meal was ready, 
And the deer had been divided, 
Both the pallid guests, the strangers, 
Springing from among the shadows, 
Seized upon the choicest portions, 
Seized the white fat of the roebuck, 
Set apart for Laughing Water, 
For the wife of Hiawatha ; 
Without asking, without thanking, 
Eagerly devoured the morsels, 
Flitted back among the shadows 
In the corner of the wigwam 

Not a word spake Hiawatha, 
Not a motion made Nokomis, 
Not a gesture Laughing Water; 
Not a change came o'er their features ; 
Only Minnehaha softly 
Whispered, saying, " They are famished : 
Let them do what best delights them ; 
Let them eat, for they are famished." 

Many a day fight dawned and darkened, 
Many a night shook off the daylight 
As the pine shakes off* the snow-flakes 
Fiom the midnight of its branches ; 
Day by day the guests unmoving 
Sat there silent in the wigwam ; 
But by night, in storm or starlight, 
Forth they went into the forest, 
Bringing fire-wood to the wigwam, 
Bringing pine-cones for the burning, 
Always sad and always silent. 

And whenever Hiawatha 
Came from fishing or from hunting, 
When the evening meal was ready, 
And the food had been divided, 
Gliding from their darksome corner, 
Came the pallid guests, the strangers, 
Seized upon the choicest portions 
Set aside for Laughing Water, 
And without rebuke or question 
Flitted back among the shadows. 

Never once had Hiawatha 
By a word or look reproved them ; 
Never once had old Nokomis 
Made a gesture of impatience ; 
Never once had Laughing Water 
Shown resentment at the outrage. 
All had they endured in silence, 
That the rights of guest and stranger, 
That the virtue of free-giving, 
By a look might not be lessened, 
By a word might not be broken . 

Once at midnight Hiawatha, 
Ever wakeful, ever watchful, 
In the wigwam, dimly lighted 
By the brands that still were burning, 
By the glimmering, flickering fire-light, 
Heard a sighing, oft repeated, 
Heard a sobbing, as of sorrow. 

From his couch rose Hiawatha, 
From his shaggy hides of bison, 
Pushed aside the deer-skin curtain, 
Saw the pallid guests, the shadows, 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 147 


Sitting upright on their couches, 


Fell the covering snow, and drifted 


Weeping in the silent midnight. 


Through the forest, round the village. 


And he said : "0 guests ! why is it 


Haruly from his buried wigwam 


That your hearts aie so afflicted, 


Could the hunter force a passage ; 


That you sob so in the midnight V 


With his mittens and his snow-shoes 


Has perchance the old Nokom.s, 


Vainly walked he through the forest, 


Has my wife, my Minnehaha, 


Sought for bird or beast and found none, 


Wronged or grieved you by unkindness, 


Saw no track of deer or rabbit, 


Failed in hospitable duties ? " 


In the snow beheld no footprints, 


Then the shadows ceased from weeping, 


In the ghastly, gleaming forest 


Ceased from sobbing and lamenting, 


Fell, and could not rise from weakness, 


And they said, with gentle voices : 


Perished there from cold and hunger. 


" VV'e are gho3ts of the departed, 


O the famine and the fever ! 


Souls of those who once were with you. 


O the wasting of the famine ! 


From the realms of Chibiabos 


the blasting of the fever ! 


Hither have we come to try you, 


the wailing of the children ! 


Hither have we come to warn you. 


O the anguish of the women ! 


tl Cries of grief and lamentation 


All the earth was sick and famished ; 


Reach us in the Blessed Islands ; 


Hungry was the air around them, 


Cries of anguish from the living, 


Hungry was the sky above them, 


Calling back their friends departed, 


And the hungry stars in heaven 


Sadden us with useless sorrow. 


Like the eyes of wolves glared at them ! 


Therefore have we come to try you ; 


Into Hiawatha's wigwam 


No one knows us, no one heeds us. 


Came two other guests, as dlent 


We are but a burden to you, 


As the ghosts were, and as gloomy, 


And we see that the departed 


Waited not to be invited, 


Have no place among the living. 


Did not parley at the doorway, 


"Think of this, O Hiawatha ! 


Sat there without word of welcome 


Speak of it to all the people, 
That henceforward and forever 


In the seat of Laughing Water : 


Looked with haggard eves and hollow 


They no more with lamentations 


At the face of Laughing Wat r. 


Sadden the souls of the departed 


And the foremost said : " Behold me ! 


In the Islands of the Blessed. 


I am Famine, Bukadawin ! " 


" Do not lay such heavy burdens 


And the other said : " Behold me ! 


In the graves of those you buy, 


I am Fever, Ahkosewin ! 


Not such weight of furs and wampum, 


And the lovely Minnehaha 


Not such weight of pots and kettles, 


Shuddered as they looked upon her. 


For the spirits faint beneath them. 


Shuddered at the words they uttered, 


Only give them food to carry, 


Lay down on her bed in silence, 


Only give them fire to light them. 


Hid her face, but made no answer ; 


"Four days is the spirit's journey 


Lay there trembling, freezing, burning 


To the land of ghosts and shadows, 


At the looks they cast upon her, 


Four its lonely night encampments ; 


At the fearful words they uttered. 


Four times must their fires be lighted. 


Forth into the empty forest 


Therefore, when the dead are buried, 


Rushed the maddened Hiawatha ; 


Let a fire, as night approaches, 


In his heart was deadly sorrow, 


Four times on the grave be kindled, 


In his face a stony firmness ; 


That the soul upon its journey 


On his brow the sweat of anguish 


May not lack the cheerful fire-light, 


Started, but it froze and fell not. 


May not grope about in darkness. 


Wrapped in furs and armed for hunting, 


" Farewell, noble Hiawatha ! 


With his mighty bow of ash-tree, 


We have put you to the trial, 


With his quiver full of arrows, 


To the proof have put your patience, 


With his mittens, Minjekahwun, 


By the insult of our presence, 


Into the vast and vacant forest 


Bv the outrage of our actions. 


On his snow-shoes strode he forward. 


We have found you great and noble. 


"Gitche Manito, the Mighty ! " 


Fail not in the greater trial, 


Cried he with his face uplifted 


Faint not in the harder struggle." 


In that bitter hour of anguish, 


When they ceased, a sudden darkness 


" Give your children food, father! 


Fell and filled the silent wigwam. 


Give us food, or we must perish ! 


Hiawatha heard a rustle 


Give me food for Minnehaha, 


As of garments trailing by him, 


For my dying Minnehaha ! " 


Heard the curtain of the doorway 


Through the far-resounding forest, 


Lifted by a hand he saw not, 


Through the forest vast and vacant 


Felt the cold breath of the night air, 


Rang that cry of desolation, 


For a moment saw the starlight ; 


But there came no other answer 


But he saw the ghost no longer, 


Than the echo of his crying, 


Saw no more the wandering spirits 


Than the echo of the woodlands, 


From the kingdom of Ponemah, 


'" Minnehaha ! Minnehaha ! " 


From the land of the Hereafter. 


All day long roved Hiawatha 




In that melancholy forest. 


XX. 


Through the shadow of whose thickets, 




In the pleasant days of Summer, 


THE FAMINE. 


Of that ne'er forgotten Summer, 




He had brought his young w.fe homeward 


O the long and dreary Winter ! 


From the land of the Daootahs ; 


O the cold and cruel Winter ! 


When the birds sang in the thickets. 


Ever thicker, thicker, thicker 


And the streamlets laughed and glistened, 


Froze the ice on lake and river, 


And the air was full of fragrance, 


Ever deeper, deeper, deeper 


And the lovely Laughing Water 


Fell the snow o'er all the landscape, 


Said with voice that did not tremble, 



148 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 




With both hands his face he covered. 



' 1 1 will follow you, my husband ! " 

In the wigwam with Nokomis, 
With those gloomy guests, that watched her, 
With the Famine and the Fever, 
She was lying, the Beloved, 
She the dying Minnehaha. 

" Hark ! " she said ; "I hear a rushing, 
Hear a roaring and a rushing, 
Hear the Falls of Minnehaha 
Calling to me from a distance ! " 
"No, my child ! " said old Nokomis, 
" 'T is the night- wind in the pine-trees ! " 

" Look ! " she said ; "I see my father 
Standing lonely at his doorway, 
Beckoning to me from his wigwam 
In the land of the Dacotahs ! " 
" No, my child ! " said old Nokomis, 
" 'T is the smoke, that waves and beckons ! " 

" Ah ! " said she, " the eyes of Pauguk 
Glare upon me in the darkness, 

I can feel his icy fingers 
Clasping mine amid the darkness ! 
Hiawatha ! Hiawatha ! " 

And the desolate Hiawatha, 
Far away amid the forest, 
Miles away among the mountains, 
Heard that sudden cry of anguish, 
Heard the voice of Minnehaha 
Calling to him in the darkness, 
" Hiawatha ! Hiawatha ! " 

Over snow-fields waste and pathless, 
Under snow-encumbered branches, 
Homeward hurried Hiawatha, 
Empty-handed, heavy-hearted, 
H^ard Nokomis moaning, wailing: 

II Wahonowin ! Wahonowin ! 
Would that I had perished for you, 
Would that I were dead as you are ! 
Wahonowin ! Wahonowin ! " 



And he rushed into the wigwam, 
Saw the old Nokomis slowly 
Rocking to and fro and moaning, 
Saw his lovely Minnehaha 
Lying dead and cold before him. 
And his bursting heart within him 
Uttered such a cry of anguish, 
That the forest moaned and shuddered, 
That the very stars in heaven 
Shook and trembled with his anguish. 

Then he sat down, still and speechless, 
On the bed of Minnehaha, 
At the feet of Laughing Water, 
At those willing feet, that never 
More would lightly run to meet him, 
Never more would lightly follow. 

With both hands his face he covered, 
Seven long days and nights he sat there. 
As if in a swoon he sat there, 
Speechless, motionless, unconscious 
Of the daylight or the darkness. 

Then they buried Minnehaha ; 
In the snow a grave they made her, 
In the forest deep and darksome, 
Underneath the moaning hemlocks ; 
Clothed her in her richest garments, 
Wrapped her in her robes of ermine ; 
Covered her with snow, like ermine, 
Thus they buried Minnehaha. 

And at night a fire was lighted, 
On her grave four times was kindled, 
For her soul upon its journey 
To the Islands of the Blessed. 
From his doorway Hiawatha 
Saw it burning in the forest, 
Lighting up the gloomy hemlocks ; 
From his sleepless bed uprising, 
From the bed of Minnehaha, 
Stood and watched it at the doorway, 






THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



140 



That it might not be extinguished, 
Might not leave her in the darkness. 

" Farewell ! " said he, " Minnehaha ! 
Farewell, O my Laughing Water ! 
All my heart is buried with you, 
All my thoughts go onward with you ! 
Come not back again to labor, 
Come not back again to suffer, 
Where the Famine and the Fever 
Wear the heart and waste the body. 
Soon my task will be completed, 
Soon your footsteps I shall follow 
To the Islands of the Blessed, 
To the Kingdom of Ponemah, 
To the Land of the Hereafter ! " 



XXI. 

THE WHITE MAN'S FOOT. 

In his lodge beside a river, 
Close beside a frozen river, 
Sat an old man, sad and lon3ly. 
White his hair was as a snow-drift ; 
Dull and low his fire was burning, 
And the old man shook and trembled, 
Folded in his Waubewyon, 
In his tattered white-skin wrapper, 
Hearing nothing but the tempest 
As it roared along the forest, 
Seeing nothing but the snow-storm, 
As it whirled and hissed and drifted. 

All the coals were white with ashes, 
And the fire was slowly dying, 
As a young man, walking lightly, 
At the open doorway entered. 
Red with blood of youth his cheeks were, 
Soft his eyes, as stars in Spring-time, 
Bound his forehead was with grasses, 
Bound and plumed with scented grasses ; 
On his lips a smile of beauty, 
Filling all the lodge with sunshine, 
Imhis hand a bunch of blossoms 
Filling all the lodge with sweetness. 

" Ah, my son ! " exclaimed the old man, 
" Happy are my eyes to see you. 
Sit here on the mat beside me, 
Sit here by the dying embers, 
Let us pass the night together. 
Tell me of your strange adventures, 
Of the lands where you have travelled ; 
I will tell you of my prowess, 
Of my many deeds of wonder." 

From his pouch he drew his peace-pipe, 
Very old and strangely fashioned ; 
Made of red stone was the pipe-head, 
And the stem a reed of feathers ; 
Filled the pipe with bark of willow. 
Placed a burning coal upon it, 
Gave it to his guest, the stranger. 
And began to speak in this wise : 

" When I blow my breath about me, 
When I breathe upon the landscape, 
Motionless are all the ri vers, 
Hard as stone becomes the water ! " 

And the young man answered, smiling : 
"When I blow my breath about me, 
When I breathe upon the landscape, 
Flowers spring up o'er all the meadows, 
Singing, onward rush the rivers ! " 

" When I shake my hoary tresses," 
Said the old man darkly frowning, 
" All the land with snow is covered; 
All the leaves from all the branches 
Fall and fade and die and wither, 
For I breathe, and lo ! they are not. 
From the waters and the marshes 
Rise the wild goose and the heron, 
Fly away to distant regions, 
For I speak, and lo ! they are not. 



And where'er my footsteps wander, 
All the wild beasts of the forest 
Hide themselves in holes and caverns. 
And the earth becomes as flmthtone ! ' 

" When I shake my flowing ringlets," 
Said the young man, softly laughing, 
" Showers of rain fall warm and welcome, 
Plants lift up their heads rejoicing, 
Back unto their lakes and marshes 
Come the wild goose and the heron, 
Homeward shoots the arrowy swallow, 
Sing the bluebird and the robin, 
And. where'er my footsteps wander, 
All the meadows wave with blossoms, 
All the woodlands ring with music. 
All the trees are dark with foliage ! " 

While they spake, the night departed : 
From the distant realms of Wabun, 
From his shining lodge of silver, 
Like a warrior robed and painted, 
Came the sun, and said, "Behold me ! 
Gheezis, the great sun, behold me ! " 

Then the old man's tongue was speechless 
And the air grew warm and pleasant, 
And upon tne wigwam sweetly 
Sang the bluebird and the robin, 
And the stream began to murmur, 
And a scent of growing grasses 
Through the lodge was gently wafted. 

And Segwun, the youthful stranger, 
More distinctly in the daylight 
Saw the icy face before him ; 
It was Peboan, the Winter ! 

From his eyes the tears were flowing, 
As from melting lakes the streamlets, 
And his body shrunk and dwindled 
As the shouting sun ascended, 
Till into the air it faded. 
Till into the ground it vanished, 
And the young man saw before him, 
On the hearth-stone of the wigwam, 
Where the fire had smoked and smouldered, 
Saw the earliest flower of Spring-time, 
Saw the Beauty of the Spring time, 
Saw the Miskodeed in blossom. 

Thus it was that in the North-land 
After that unheard-of- coldness, 
That intolerable W r inter, 
Came the Spring with all its splendor, 
All its birds and all its blossoms, 
All its flowers and leaves and grasses. 

Sailing on the wind to northward. 
Flying in great flocks, like arrows, 
Like huge arrows shot through heaven, 
Passed the swan, the Mahnahbezee, 
Speaking almost as a man speaks ; 
And in long lines waving, bending 
Like a bow-string snapped asunder, 
Came the white goose, Waw-be-wawa; 
And in pairs, or singly flying, 
Mahng the loon, with clangorous pinions, 
The blue heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
And the grouse, the Mushkodasa. 

In the thickets and the meadows 
Piped the bluebird, the Owaissa, 
On the summit of the lodges 
Sang the robin, the Opechee, 
In the covert of the pine-trees 
Cooed the pigeon, the Omemee, 
And the sorrowing Hiawatha, 
Speechless in his infinite sorrow, 
Heard their voices calling to him. 
Went forth from his gloomy doorway, 
Stood and gazed into the heaven, 
Gazed upon the earth and waters. 

From his wanderings far to eastward, 
From the regions of the morning, 
From the shining land of Wabun, 
Homeward now returned Iagoo, 
The great traveller, the great boaster, 
Full of new and strange adventures, 



150 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



Marvels many and many wonders. 

And the people of the village 
Listened to him as he told them 
Of his marvellous adventures, 
Laughing answered him in this wise : 
" Ugh ! it is indeed Iagoo ! 
No one else beholds such wonders ! " 

He had seen, he said, a water 
Bigger than the Big-Sea- Water, 
Broader than the Gitche Gumee, 
Bitter so that none could drink it ! 
At each other looked the warriors, 
Looked the women at each other, 
Smiled, and said, "It cannot be so ! 
Kaw ! " they said, "it cannot be so ! " 

O'er it, said he, o'er this water 
Came a great canoe with pinions, 
A canoe with wings came flying, 
Bigger than a grove of pine-trees, 
Taller than the tallest tree-tops ! 
And the old men and the women 
Looked and tittered at each other ; 
" Kaw ! " they said, " we don't believe it ! " 

From its mouth, he said, to greet him, 
Came Waywassimo, the lightning, 
Came the thunder, Annemeekee ! 
And the warriors and the women 
Laughed aloud at poor Iagoo ; 
41 Kaw ! " they said, " what tales you foil us ! " 

In it, said he, came a people, 
In the great canoe with pinions 
Came, he said, a hundred warriors ; 
Painted white were all their faces, 
And with hair their chins were covered ! 
And the warriors and the women 
Laughed and shouted in derision, 
Like the ravens on the tree-tops, 
Like the crows upon the hemlocks. 
" Kaw ! " they said, " what lies you tell us ! 
Do not think that we believe them !" 

Only Hiawatha laughed not, 
But he gravely spake and answered 
To their jeering and their jesting : 
" True is all Iagoo tells us ; 
I have seen it in a vision, 
Seen the great canoe with pinions, 
Seen the people with white faces, 
Seen the coming of this bearded 
People of the wooden vessel 
From the regions of the morning, 
Fi om the shining land of Wabun. 

'.' Gitche Manito, the Mighty, 
The Great Spirit, the Creator, 
Sends them hither on his errand, 
Sends them to us with his message. 
Wheresoe'er they move, before them 
Swarms the stinging fly, the Ahmo. 
Swarms the bee, the honey-maker ; 
Wheresoe'er they tread, beneath them 
Springs a flower unknown among us, 
Springs the White man's Foot in blossom. 

" Let us welcome, then, the strangers, 
Hail them as our friends and brothers, 
And the heart's right hand of friendship 
Give them when they come to see us. 
Gitche Manito, the Mighty, 
Said this to me in my vision. 

''I beheld, too, in that vision 
All the secrets of the future, 
Of the distant days that shall be. 
I beheld the westward marches 
Of the unknown, crowded nations. 
All the land was full of people, 
Restless, struggling, toiling, striving, 
Speaking many tongues, yet feeling 
But one heart-beat in their bosoms. 
In the woodlands -ang their axes, 
Smoked their towns in all the valleys, 
Over all the lakes and rivers 
R.ished their great canoes of thunder. 

41 Then a darker, drearier vision 



Passed before me, vague and cloud-like : 
I beheld our nation scattered, 
All forgetful of my counsels, 
Weakened, warring with each other ; 
Saw the remnants of our people 
Sweeping westward, wild and woeful, 
Like ti.c cloud-rack of a tempest, 
Like the withered leaves of Autumn ! " 



XXII. 

hiawatha's departure. 

By the shore of Gitche Gumee, 
By the shining Big-Sea-Water, 
At the doorway of his wigwam, 
In the pleasant Summer morning, 
Hiawatha stood and waited. 

All the air was full of freshness, 
All the earth was bright and joyous, 
And before him, through the sunshine, 
Westward toward the neighboring forest 
Passed in golden swarms the Ahmo, 
Passed the bees, the honey-makers, 
Burning, singing in the sunshine. 

Bright above him shone the heav'ns, 
Level spread the lake before him ; 
From its bosom leaped the sturgeon, 
Sparkling, flashing in the sunshine ; 
On its margin the great forest 
Stood reflected in the water, 
Every tree-top had its shadow, 
Motionless beneath the water. 

From the brow of Hiawatha 
Gone was every trace of sorrow, 
As the fog from off the water, 
As the mist from off the meadow. 
With a smile of joy and triumph, 
With a look of exultation, 
As of one who in a vision 
Sees what is to be, but is not, 
Stood and waited Hiawatha. 

Toward the sun his hands were lifted, 
Both the palms spread out against it. 
And between the parted fingers 
Fell the sunshine on his features, 
Flecked with light his naked shoulders, 
As it falls and flecks an oak-tree 
Through the rifted leaves and branches. 

O'er the water floating, flying, 
Something in the hazy distance, 
Something in the mists of morning, 
Loomed and lifted from the water, 
Now seemed floating, now seemed flying, 
Coming nearer, nearer, nearer. 

Was it Shingebis the diver V 
Or the pelican, the Shada ? 
Or the heron, the Shu-shu-gah ? 
Or the white goose, Waw-be-wawa, 
With the water dripping, flashing, 
From its glossy neck and feathers ? 

It was neither goose nor diver, 
Neither pelican nor heron, 
O'er the water floating, flying, 
Through the shining mist of morning, 
But a birch canoe with paddles, 
Rising, sinking on the water, 
Dripping, flashing in the sunshine ; 
And within it came a people 
From the distant land of Wabun, 
From the farthest realms of morning 
Came the Black-Robe chief, the Prophet, 
He the Priest of Praj^er, the Pale-face, 
With his guides and his companions. 

And the noble Hiawatha, 
With his hands aloft extended, 
Held aloft in sign of welcome, 
Waited, full of exultation, 
Till the birch canoe with paddles 
Grated on the shining pebbles, 



**k 



t 



I 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



151 



Stranded on the sandy margin, 
Till the Black-Robe chief, the Pale-face, 
Witli the cross upon his bosom, 
Landed on the sandy margin. 

Then the joyous Hiawatha 
Cried aloud and spake in this wise : 
" Beautiful is the sun, O strangeris, 
When you come so far to see us ! 
All our town in peace awaits you, 
All our doors stand open for you ; 
You shall enter all our wigwams, 
For the heart's right hand we give you. 

" Never bloomed the earth so gayly, 
Never shone the sun so brightly, 
As to-day they shine and blossom 
Whsn you come so far to see us ! 
Never was our lake so tranquil, 
Nor so free from rocks and sand-bars ; 
For your birch canoe in passing 
Has removed both rock and sand-bar. 

"Never before had our tobacco 
Such a sweet and pleasant flavor, 
Never the broad leaves of our cornfields 
Were so beautiful to look on, 
As they seem to us this morning. 
When you come so far to see us ! " 

And"the Black-Robe chief made answer, 
Stammered m his speech a little, 
Speaking words yet unfamiliar : 
"Peace be with you, Hiawatha, 
Peace be with you and your people, 
Peace of prayer, and peace of pardon, 
Peace of Christ, and joy of Mary ! " 

Then the generous Hiawatha 
Lod the strangers to his wigwam, 
Seated them on skins of bison, 
Seated them on skins of ermine, 
And the careful old Nokomis 
Brought them food in bowls of bass-wood, 
Water brought in birchen dippers, 
And the calumet, the peace-pipe, 
Filled and lighted for their smoking. 

All the old men of the village, 
All the warriors of the nation, 
All the Jossakeeds, the prophets, 
The magicians, the Wabenos, 
And the medicine men, the Medas, 
Came to bid the strangers welcome ; 
" It is well," they said. lt O brothers-, 
That you come so far to see us ! " 
In a circle round the doorway, 
With their pipes they sat in silence, 
Waiting to behold the strangers, 
Waiting to receive their message ; 
Till the Black-Robe chief, the Pale-face, 
From the wigwam came to greet them, 
Stammering in his speech a little, 
Speaking words yet unfamiliar ; 
"It is well," they said, " O brother, 
That you come so far to see us ! " 

Then the Black-Robe chief, the prophet, 
Told his message to the people, 
Told the purport of his mission, 
Told them of the Virgin Mary, 
And her blessed Son, the Saviour, 
How in distaut lands and ages 
He had lived on earth as we do ; 
How he faste d, prayed, and labored ; 
How the Jews, the tribe accursed, 
Mocked him, scourged him, crucified him ; 
How he rose from where they laid him, 
Walked again with his disciples, 
And ascended into heaven. 

And the chiefs made answer, saying : 
' 'We have listened to your message, 
We have heard your words of wisdom, 
We will think on what you tell us. 
It is well for us, O brothers, 
That you come so far to see us ! " 

Then they rose up and departed 
Each one homeward to his wigwam, 



To the young men and the women 
Told the story of the strangers 
Wnom the Master of Life had sent them 
From the shining land of Wabun. 
Heavy with the heat and silence 
Grew the afternoon of Summer ; 
With a drowsy sound the forest 
Whispered round the sultry wigwam, 
With a sound of sleep the water 
Rippled on the beach below it; 
From the cornfield shrill and ceaseless 
Sang the grasshopper, Pau-puk-keona ; 
And the guests of Hiawatha, 
Weary with the heat of Simmer, 
Slumbered in the sultry wigwam. 

Slowly o'er the simmering landscape 
Fell the evening's dusk and coolness, 
And the long and level r,unbeams 
Shot their spears into the forest, 
Breaking through its shields of shadow, 
Bashed into each secret ambush, 
Searched each thicket, dingle, hollow ; 
fctill the guests of Hiawatha 
Slumbered in the silent -wigwam. 
From his place rose Hiawatha, 
Bade farewell to old Nokomis, 
Spake m whispers, spake in this wise, 
Lit not wake the guests, that slumbered : 

"I am going, O Nokomis, 
On a long and distant journey, 
To the portals of the Sunset, 
To the regions of the home-wind, 
Of the Northwest wind, Keewaydin. 
But these guests I leave behind me, 
In your watch and ward I leave them ; 
See that never harm comes near them, 
See that never fear molests them, 
Never danger nor suspicion, 
Never want of food or shelter, 
In the lodge of Hiawatha ! " 

Forth into the village went he, 
Bade farewell to all the warriors. 
Bade farewell to all the young men, 
Spake persuading, spake in this wise : 

" I am going, O my people, 
On a long and distant journey ; 
M my moons and many winters 
Will have come, and will have vanished, 
Ere I come again to see you. 
But my guests I leave behind me ; 
Listen to their words of wisdom, 
Listen to the truth they tell yen. 
For the Master of Life has sent them 
From the land of light and morning ! " 

On the shore stood Hiawatha, 
Turned and waved his hand at parting ; 

| On the clear and luminous water 
Launched his birch canoe for sailing, 

| From the pebbles of the margin 

I S loved it forth into the water ; 

1 Whispered to it, "Westward ! westward 

| And with speed it darted forward. 
And the evening sun descending 

j Sjt the clouds on fire with redness, 
Burned the broad sky, like a prairie, 

: L if t upon the level water 

\ One long track and trail of splendor, 
Down whose stream, as down a river, 
Westward, westward Hiawatha 

I Sailed into the fiery sunset, 

I Sailed into the purple vapors, 

: Sailed into the dusk of evening. 
And the people from the margin 
Watched him floating, rising, sinking, 
Till the birch canoe seemed lifted 

j High into that sea of splendor, 

i Ti 1 it sank into the vapors 

j L ke the new moon slowly, slowly 

i S nking in the purple distance. 

And they said, "Farewell forever!" 

I Said, "Farewell, O Hiawatha ! " 



J 



152 



THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 



And the forests, dark and lonely, 

Moved through all theirdepths of aarkness, 

Sighed, "Farewell, O Hiawatha ! " 

And the waves upon the margin 

Rising, rippling on the pebbles, 

Sobbed, k> Farewell, O Hiawatha ! " 

And the heron, the Slmh-shuh-gah, 

From her haunts among the feu-lands, 

Screamed, "Farewell, O Hiawatha ! " 



Thus departed Hiawatha 
Hiawatha the Beloved, 
In the glory of the sunset, 
In the purple mists of evening, 
To the regions of the home-wind, 
Of the Northwest wind Keewaydin, 
To the Islands of the Blessed, 
To the kingdom of Ponemah, 
To the land of the Hereafter ! 



THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STAlsTDISH. 




To and fro in a room of his simple and primitive dwelling. 



MILES STANDISH. 

In the Old Colony days, in Plymouth the land of 
the Pilgrims, 

To and fro in a room of his simple and primitive 
dwelling, 

Clad in doublet and hose, ahd boots of Cordovan 
leather, 

Strode, with a martial air, Miles Standish the 
Puritan Captain. 

Buried in thought he seemed, with his hands be- 
hind him, and pausing 

Ever and anon to behold his glittering weapons 
of warfare, 

Hanging in shining array along the walls of the 
chamber, — 

Cutlass and corselet of steel, and his trusty sword 
of Damascus, 

Curved at the point and inscribed with its mysti- 
cal Arabic sentence, 

While underneath, in a corner, were fowling- 
piece, musket, and matchlock. 



Short of stature he was, but strongly built and 
athletic, 

Broad in the shoulders, deep-chested, with mus- 
cles and sinews of iron ; 

Brown as a nut was his face, but his russet beard 
was already 

Flaked with patches of snow, as hedges some- 
times in November. 

Near him was seated John Alden, his friend, and 
household companion, 

Writing with diligent speed at a table of pinejby 
the window ; 

Fair-haired, azure-eyed, with delicate Saxon com- 
plexion, 

Having the dew of his youth, and the beauty 
thereof, as the captives 

Whom Saint Gregory saw, and exclaimed, "Not 
Angles, but Angels. 1 ' 

Youngest of all was he of the men who came in 
the May Flower. 



Suddenly breaking the silence, the diligent 
scribe interrupting, 



1 



■v, 



THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 



153 



Spake, in the pride of his heart, Miles Standlsh Beautiful rose of love, that bloomed for me by the 

the Captain of Plymouth. | wayside ! 

"Look at those arms," he said, "the warlike She was the first to die of all who came in the 

weapons that hang here j May Flower ! 

Burnished and bright and clean, as if for parade | Green above her is growing the field of wheat we 

or inspection ! have sown there, 

This is the sword of Damascus I fought with in Better to hide from the Indian scouts the graves 

Flanders; this breastplate, of our people, 

Well I remember the day ! once saved my life in Lest they should count them and see how many 

a skirmish ; | already have perished ! " 

Here in front you can see the very dint of the Sadly his face he averted, and strode up and down, 

bullet and was thoughtful. 

Fired point-blank at my heart by a Spanish j 

arcabucero. Fixed to the opposite wall was a shelf of books, 

Had it not been of sheer steel, the forgotten bones | and among them 

of Miles Standish Prominent three, distinguished alike for bulk and 

Would at this moment be mould, in their grave i for binding ; 

in the Flemish morasses.'' J Bariffe's Artillery Guide, and the Commentaries 

Thereupon answered John Alden, but looked not 



up from his writing 
"Truly the breath of the Lord hath slackened j 

the speed of the bullet ; 
He in his mercy preserved you, to be our shield 

and our weapon ! " 
Still the Captain continued, unheeding the words 



of Caesar 
Out of the Latin translated by Arthur Goldinge 

of London, 
And, as if guarded by these, between them was 

standing the Bible. 
Musing a moment before them. Miles Standish 

paused, as if doubtful 



of the stripling : I Which of the three he should choose for his con- 

"See, how bright they are burnished, as if in an solation and comfort, 

arsenal hanging ; Whether the wars of the Hebrews, the famous 

That is because I have done it myself, and not campaigns of the Romans, 

left it to others. Or the Artillery practice, designed for bell'.gerent 

Serve yourself, would you be well served, is an Christians. 

excellent adage ; j Finally down from its shelf he dragged the pon- 

So I take care of my arms, as you of your pens derous Roman, 

and your inkhorn. j Seated himself at the window, and opened the 



Then, too, there are my soldiers, my great, invin- 
cible army, 
Twelve men, all equipped, having each his rest 

and his matchlock, 
Eighteen shillings a month, together with diet 

and pillage, 
And, like Caesar, I know the name of each of my 

soldiers ! " 
This he said with a smile, that danced in his eyes, 

as the sunbeams 
Dance on the waves of the sea, and vanish again 

in a moment. 
Alden laughed as he wrote, and still the Captain 

continued : 
"Look ! you can see from this window my brazen 

howitzer planted 
High on the roof of the church, a preacher who 

speaks to the purpose, 
Steady, straightforward, and strong, with irresist- 
ible logic, 
Orthodox, flashing conviction right into the 

hearts of the heathen. 
Now we are ready, I think, for any assault of the 

Indians ; 
Let them come, if they like, and the sooner they 

try it the better, — 
Let them come if they like, be it sagamore, 

sachem, or pow-wow, 
Aspinet, Samoset, Corbitant, Squanto, or Toka- 

mahamon ! " 



where thumb- 



book, and in silence 
Turned o'er the well-worn leave 

marks thick on the margin, 
Like the trample of feet, proclaimed the battle 

was hottest, 
Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying 

pen of the stripling, 
Busily writing epistles important, to go by the 

May Flower. 
Ready to sail on the morrow, or next day at 

latest, God willing ! 
Homeward bound with the tidings of all that ter- 
rible winter. 
Letters written by Alden, and full of the name of 

Priscilla, 
Full of the name and the fame of the Puritan 

maiden Priscilla ! 



II 



LOVE AXD FRIENPSHTP. 



Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying 

pen of the stripling, 
Or an occasional sigh from the laboring heart of 

the Captain, 
Reading the marvellous words and achievements 

of Julius Caesar. 
After awhile he exclaimed, as he smote with his 
hand, palm downwards, 
Long at the window he stood, and wistfully j Heavily on the page: "A wonderful man was 
gazei on the landscape, this Caesar ! 

Washed with a cold gray mist, the vapory breath ■. You are a writer, and I am a fighter, but here is 

of the east-wind, a fellow 

Forest and meadow and hill, and the steel-blue ' Who could both write and fight, and in both was 

rim of the ocean, equally skilful ! " 

Lying silent and sad, in the afternoon shadows ' Straightway answered and spake John Alden, the 

and sunshine. comely, the youthful : 

Over his countenance flitted a shadow like those " Yes, he was equally skilled, as you say, with his 

on the landscape, pen and his weapons. 

Gloom intermingled with light ; and his voice was I Somewhere have I read, but where I forget, he 



subdued with emotion, 

Tenderness, pity, regret, as after a pause he pro- 
ceeded : 

" Yonder there, on the hill by the sea. lies buried 
Rose Standish : 



could dictate 
Seven letters at once, at the same time writing 

his memoirs." 
••Truly," continued the Captain, not heeding or 

hearing the other, 




l'A 



THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 



11 Truly a wonderful man was Caius Julius 

Cesar ! 
Batter be first, he said, in a little Iberian vil- ! 

lage, 
Than be second in Rome, and I think he was j 

right when he said it. 
Twice he was marrie:l before he was twenty, and 

many times after ; 
Battles five hundred he fought, and a thousand | 

cities he conquered ; 
He. too, fought in Flanders, as he himself has re- j 

corded ; 
Finally he was stabbed by his friend, the orator 

Brutus ! 
Now, do you know what he did on a certain occa- 
sion in Flanders, 
When the rear -guard of his army retreated, the 

front giving way too, 
And the immortal Twelfth Legion was crowded 

so closely together 
There was no room for their swords ? Why, he 

seized a shield from a soldier, 
Put himself straight at the head of his troops, 

and commanded the captains, 
Calling on each by his name, to order forward the 

ensigns ; 
Then to widen the ranks, and give more room for 

their weapons ; 
So he won the day, the battle of something-or- 

other. 
That 's what I always say ; if you wish a thing to 

be wall done, 
You must do it yourself, you must not leave it to 

others ! " W 

All was silent again ; the Captain continued his 

reading. 
Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying 

pen of the stripling 
Writing epistles important to go next day by the 

May Flower, 
Filled with the name and the fame of the Puritan 

maiden Priscilla ; 
Every sentence began or closed with the name of 

Priscilla, 
Tdl the treacherous pen, to which he confided the 

secret, 
Strove to betray it by singing and shouting the 

name of Priscilla ! 
Finally closing his book, with a bang of the pon- 
derous cover, 
Sudden and loud as the sound of a soldier 

grounding his musket, 
Thus to the young man spake Miles Standish the 

Captain of Plymouth : 
"When you have finished your work, I have 

something important to tell you. 
Be not however in haste ; I can wait ; I shall not 

be impatient ! " 
Straightway Alden replied, as he folded the last 

of his letters, 
Pushing his papers aside, and giving respectful 

attention : 
"Speak; for whenever you speak, I am always 

ready to listen, 
Always ready to hear whatever pertains to Miles 

Standish." 
Thereupon answered the Captain, embarrassed, 

and culling his phrases : 
"'T is not good for a man to be alone, say the 

Scriptures. 
This I have said before, and again and again I re- 
peat it ; 
Every hour in the day, I think it, and feel it, and 

say it. 
Since Rose Standish died, my life has been 

weary and dreary ; 
Sick at heart have I been, beyond the healing of 

friendship. 
Oft in my lonely hours have I thought of the 

maiden Priscilla. 



She is alone in the world ; her father and mother 

and brother 
Died in the winter together ; I saw her going and 

coming, 
Now to the grave of the dead, and now to the -bed 

of the dying, 
Patient, courageous, and strong, and said to my- 
self, that if ever 
There were angels on earth, as there are angels in 

heaven, 
Two have I seen and known; and the angel whose 

name is Priscilla 
Holds in my desolate life the place which the 

other abandoned. 
Long have I cherished the thought, but never 

have dared to reveal it, 
Being a coward in this, though valiant enough for 

the most part. 
Go to the damsel Priscilla, the loveliest maiden 

of Plymouth, 
Say that a blunt old Captain, a man not of words 

but of actions, 
Offers his hand and his heart, the hand and heart 

of a soldier. 
Not in these words, you know, but this in short 

is my meaning ; 
I am a maker of war, and not a maker of 

phrases. 
You, who are bred of a scholar, can say it in ele- 
gant language, 
Such as you read m your books of the pleadings 

and wooings of lovers, 
Such as you think best adapted to win the heart 

of a maiden," 

When he had spoken, John Alden, the fair- 
haired, taciturn stripling. 

All aghast as his words, surprised, embarrassed, 
bewildered, 

Trying to mask his dismay by treating the sub- 
ject with lightness, 

Trying to smile, and yet feeling his heart stand 
still in his bosom, 

Just as a timepiece stops in a house that is stricken 
by lightning, 

Thus made answer and spake, or rather stam- 
mered than answered : 

" Such a message as that, lam sure I should man- 
gle and mar it ; 
: If you would have it? well done, — I am only re- 
peating your maxim, — 

You must do it yourself, you must not leave, it to 
others ! " 

But with the air of a man whom nothing can turn 
from his purpose, 
; Gravely shaking his head, made answer the 

Captain of Plymouth : 
I "Truly the maxim is good, and I do not mean to 
gainsay it ; 

But we must use it discreetly, and not waste 
powder for nothing. 
I Now, as I said before, I was never a maker of 

phrases. 
; I can march up to a fortress and summon the 

the place to surrender, 
j But march up to a woman with such a proposal, 
I dare not. 

I'm not afraid of bullets, nor shot from the 
mouth of a cannon, 
I But of the thundering "No ! " point-blank from 

the mouth of a woman, 
: That I confess I 'm afraid of, nor am I ashamed 
to confess it ! " 

So you must grant my request, for you are an ele- 
gant scholor, 

Having the graces of speech, and skill in the 
turning of phrases." 

Taking the hand of his friend, who still was re- 
luctant and doubtful, 

Holding it long in his own, and pressing it kindly, 
he added : 




THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 



" Though I have spoken thus lightly, yet deep is Breathing their silent farewells, as they fade and 

the feeling that prompts me; wither and perish, 

Surely you cannot refuse what I ask in the name Soon to be thrown away as is the heart of the 

of our friendship ! " giver." 

Then made answer John Alden : " The name of So through the Plymouth woods John Alden 

friendship is sacred ; went on his errand ; 

What you demand in that name, I have not the Came to an open space, and saw the disk of the 

power to deny you ! '' ocean, 

Ho the strong will prevailed, subduing and mould- Sailless, sombre and cold with the comfo.tless 

i lg the genller, breath of the east-wind ; 

Friendship prevailed over love, and Alden went Saw the new-built house, and people at work in a 

on his errand. meadow ; 

Heard, as he drew near the door, the musical 

III. voice of Priscilla 

Singing the hundredth Psalm, the grand oldPuri 
THE LOVER'S ERRAND. 



I 



So the strong will prevailed, and Alden went on 
his errand, 

Out of the street of the village, and into the paths 
of the forest, 

Into the tnnquil woods, where bluebirds and 
robins were buil ling 

Towns in the populous trees, with hanging gar- 
dens of ver lure, 

Peacefcd, aerial cities of joy and affection and 
freedom. 

All around him was calm, but within him com- 
motion and conflict, 

Love contending with friendship, and self with 
each generous impulse. 

To and fro in his breast his thoughts were heav- 
ing and dashing, 

As in a foundering ship, with every roll of the 
vessel, 

Washes the bitter sea, the merciless surge of the 
ocean ! 

"Mist I relinquish it all," he cried with a wild 
lamentation, — 

''Must I relinquish it all, the joy, the hope, the 
illusion ? 

Was it for this I have loved, and waited, and wor- 
shipped in silence ? 

Was it for this I have followed the flying feet and 
the shadow 

Over the wintry sea, to the desolate shores of Xew 
England ? 

Truly the heart is deceitful, and out of its depths 
of corruption 

Rise, like an exhalation, the misty phantoms of 
passion ; 

Angels of light they seem, but are 011I3- delusions 
of Satan. 

All is clear to me now ; I feel it, I see it distinctly ! 

This is the hand of the Lord ; it is laid upon me 
in anger, 

For I have followed too much the heart's desires 
and devices, 

Worshipping Astaroth blindly, and impious idols 
of Baal. 

This is the cross I must bear ; the sin and the 
swift retribution." 



tan anthem, 
Music that Luther sang to the sacred words of the 

Psalmist, 
Full of tiie breath of the Lord, consoling and com- 
forting many. 
Then, as he opened the door, he beheld the form 

of the maiden 
Seated beside her wheel, and the carded wool like 

a snow-drift 
Piled at her knee, her white hands feeding the 

ravenous spindle, 
While with her foot on the treadle she guide! the 

wheel m its motion. 
Open wide on her lap lay the well-worn psalm- 
book of Ainsworth, 
Printed in Amsterdam, the words and the music 

together, 
Rough hewn, angular notes, like stones in the wall 

of a churchyard. 
Darkened and overhung by the running vine of 

the verses. 
S ich was the book from whose pages she sang the 

old Puritan anthem, 
She, the Puritan girl, in the solitude of the 

forest, 
Making the humble house and the modest apparel 

of home-spun 
Beautiful with her beauty, and rich with the 

wealth of her being '. 
Over him rushed, like a wind that is keen and 

cold and relentless, 
Thoughts of what might have been, and the 

weight and woe of his errand ; 
All the dreams that had faded, and all the hopes 

that had vanished, 
All his life henceforth a dreary and tenantless 

mansion, 
Haunted by vain regrets, and pallid, sorrowful 

faces. 
Still he said to himself, and almost fiercely he 

said it, 
" Let not him that putteth his hand to the plough 

look backwards ; 
Though the ploughshare cut through the flowers 

of life to its fountains. 
Though it pass o'er the graves of the dead and 

the hearths of the living, 



It is the will of^the Lord; and his mercy endur- 
So through the Plymouth woods John Alden eth forever ! " 

went on his errand ; 
Crossing the brook at the ford, where it brawled So he entered the house : and the hum of the 

over pebble and shallow, wheel and the singing 

Gathering still, as he went, the May-flowers Suddenly ceased ; for Priscilla, aroused by his 



blooming around him, 

Fragrant, filling the air with a strange and won- 
derful sweetness, 

Children lost in the woods, and covered with 
leaves in their slumber. 

"Puritan flowers," he said, "and the type of 
Puritan maidens, 

Modest and simple and sweet, the very type of 
Priscilla ! » 

So I will take them to her ; to Priscilla the May- 
flower of Plymouth, 

Modest and simple and sweet, as a parting gift 
will I take them; 



step 0:1 the threshold, 

Rose as he entered, and gave him her hand, in sig- 
nal of welcome, 

Saying, " I knew it was you, when I heard your 
step in the passage ; 

For I was thinking of you, as I sat there singing 
and spinning." 

Awkward and dumb with delight, that a thought 
of him had been mingled 

Thus in the sacred psalm, that came from the 
heart of the maiden. 

Silent before her he stood, and gave her the flow- 
ers for an answer, 




15G 



THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 



Finding no words for his thonght. He remem- 
bered that day in the winter, 

After the first great snow, when he broke a path 
from the village, 

Reeling and plunging along through the drifts 
that encumbered the doorway, 

Stamping the snow from his feet as he entered 
the house, and Priscilla 

Laughed at his snowy locks, and gave him a seat 
by the fireside, 

Grateful and pleased to know he had thought of 
her in the snow-storm. 

Had he but spoken then ! perhaps not in vain had 
he spoken ; 

Now it was all too late ; the golden moment had 
vanished ! 

So he stood there abashed, and gave her the flow- 
ers for an answer. 

Then they sat down and talked of the birds and 

the beautiful Spring-time, 
Talked of their friends at home, and the May 

Flower that sailed on the morrow 
"I have been thinking all day," said gently the 

Puritan maiden. 
' k Dreaming all night, and thinking all day, of the 

hedge rows of England, — 
They are in blossom now, and the country is all 

like a garden ; 
Thinking of lanes and fields, and the song of the 

lark and the linnet, 
Seeing the village street, and familiar faces of 

neighbors 
Going about as of old, and stopping to gossip 

together, 
And, at the end of the street, the village church, 

with the ivy 
Climbing the old gray tower, and the quiet graves 

in the churchyard. 
Kind are the people 1 live with, and dear to me 

my religion ; 
Still my heart is so sad, that I wish myself back 

in Old England. 
You will say it is wrong, but I cannot help it : I 

almost 
Wish myself back in Old England, I feel so lone- 
ly and wretched." 

Thereupon answered the youth : " Indeed I do 

not condemn you ; 
Stouter hearts than a woman's have quailed in 

this terrible winter. 
Yours is tender and trusting, and needs a stronger 

to lean on ; 
So 1 have come to you now, with an offer and 

proffer of marriage 
Made by a good man and true, Miles Standish 

the Captain of Plymouth ! " 

Thus he delivered his message, the dexterous 

writer of letters, — 
Did not embellish the theme, nor array it in beau- 
tiful phrases, 
But came straight to the point, and blurted it 

out like a school-boy ; 
Even the Captain himself could hardly have said 

it more bluntly. 
Mute with amazement and sorrow, Priscilla the 

Puritan maiden 
Looked into Alden's face, her eyes dilated with 

wonder, 
Feeling his words like a blow, that stunned her 

and rendered her speechless ; 
Till at length she exclaimed, interrupting the 

ominous silence : 
"If the great Captain of Plymouth is so very 

eager to wed me. 
Why does he not come himself, and take the 

trouble to woo me ? 
If I am not worth the wooing, I surely am not 

worth the winning ! " 



Then John Alden began explaining and smooth- 
ing the matter, 

Making it worse as he went, by saying the Cap- 
tain was busy, — 

Had no time for such things ; — such things ! the 
words grating harshly 

Fell on the ear of Priscilla ; and swift as a flash 
she made answer : 

"Has no time for such things, as you call it, be- 
fore he is married, 

Would he be likely to find it, or make it, after 
the wedding ? 

That is the way with you men ; you don't under- 
stand us, you cannot. 

When you have made up your minds, after think- 
ing of this one and that one, 

Choosing, selecting, rejecting, comparing one 
with another, 

Then you make known your desire, with abrupt 
and sudden avowal, 

And are offended and hurt, and indignant perhaps, 
that a woman 

Does not respond at once to a love that she never 
suspected, 

Does not attain at a bound the height to which 
you have been climbing. 

This is not right nor just : for surely a woman's 
affection 

Is not a thing to be asked for, and had for only 
the asking. 

When one is truly in love, one not only says it, 
but shows it. 

Had he but waited awhile, had he only showed 
that he loved me, 

Even this captain of yours — who knows ? — at 
last might have won me, 

Old and rough as he is ; but now it never can 
happen. " 

Still John Alden went on, unheeding the words 
of Priscilla, 

Urging the suit of his friend, explaining, per- 
suading, expanding ; 

Spoke of his courage and skill, and of all his bat- 
tles in Flanders, 

How with the people of God he had chosen to 
suffer affliction, 

How, in return for his zeal, they had made him 
Captain of Plymouth ; 

He was a gentleman born, could trace his pedi- 
gree plainly 

Back to Hugh Standish of Duxbury Hall, in Lan- 
cashire, England, 

Who was the son of Ralph, and the grandson of 
Thurston de Standish ; 

Heir unto vast estates, of which he was basely 
defrauded, 

Still bore the family arms, and had for his crest a 
cock argent 

Combed and wattled gules, and all the rest of 
the blazon. 

He was a man of honor, of noble and generous 
nature ; 

Though he was rough, he was kindly ; she knew 
how during the winter 

He had attended the sick, with a hand as gentle 
as woman's ; 

Somewhat hasty and hot, he could not deny it, 
and headstrong, 

Stern as a soldier might be, but hearty, and 
placable always, 

Not to be laughed at and scorned, because he was 
little of stature ; 

For he was great of heart, magnanimous, courtly, 
courageous ; 

Any woman in Plymouth, nay, any woman in 
England, 

Might be happy and protfd to be called the wife 
of Miles Standish ! 

But as he warmed and glowed, in his simple 
and eloquent language. 




THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 



137 



i 



Quite forgetful of self, and full of the praise of 
his rival, 

Archly the maiden smiled, and, with eyes over- 
running with laughter, 

Said, in a tremulous voice, " Why don't you 
speak for yourself, John V " 



IV. 



JOHN A LI) EN. 

Into the open air John Alden, perplexed and be- 
wildered, 

Rushed like a man insane, and wandered alone 
by the sea-side ; 

Paced up and down the sands, and bared his head 
to the east-wind, 

Cooling his heated brow, and the fire and fever 
within him. 

Slowly as out of the heavens, with apocalyptical 
splendors, 

Sank the City of God, in the vision of John the 
Apostle, 

So, with its cloudy walls of chrysolite, jasper, and 
sapphire, 

Sank the broad red sun, and over its turrets up- 
lifted 

Glimmered the golden reed of the angel who 
measured the city. 

" Welcome, O wind of the East ! " he exclaimed 
in his wild exultation, 

" Welcome, O wind of the East, from the caves 
of the misty Atlantic ! 

Blowing o'er fields of dulse, and measureless 
meadows of sea-grass, 

Blowing o'er rocky wastes, and the grottos and 
gardens of ocean ! 

Lay thy cold, moist hand on my burning fore- 
head, and wrap me 

Close in thy garments of mist, to allay the fever 
within me ! " 

Like an awakened conscience, the sea was 

moaning and tossing, 
Beating remorseful and loud the mutable sands 

of the sea-shore. 
Fierce in his soul was the struggle and tumult of 

passions contending ; 
Love triumphant and crowned, and friendship 

wounded and bleeding, 
Passionate cries of desire, and importunate plead- 
ings of duty ! 
u Is it my fault," he said, "that the maiden has 

chosen between us ? 
Is it my fault that he failed, — my fault that I am 

the victor ? " 
Then within him there thundered a voice, like the 

voice of the Prophet : 
"It hath displeased the Lord ! " — and he thought 

of David's transgression, 
Bathsheba's beautiful face, and his friend in the 

front of the battle ! 
Shame and confusion of guilt, and abasement and 

self-condemnation, 
Overwhelmed him at once ; and he cried in the 

deepest contrition : 
"It hath displeased the Lord ! It is the tempta- 
tion of Satan ! " 

Then, uplifting his head, he looked at the sea, 
and beheld there 

Dimly the shadowy form of the May Flower rid- 
ing at anchor, 

Rocked on the rising tide, and ready to sail on 
the morrow ; 

Heard the voices of men through the mist, the 
rattle of cordage 

Thrown on the deck, the shouts of the mate, and 
the sailors' "Ay, ay, Sir ! " 

s 



Clear and distinct, but not loud, in the dripping 

air of the twilight. 
Still for a moment he stood, and listened, and 

stared at the vessel, 
Then went hurriedly on, as one who, seeing a 

phantom, 
Stops, then quickens his pace, and follows the 

beckoning shadow. 
" Yes, it is plain to me now," he murmured ; " the 

hand of the Lord is 
Loading me out of the land of darkness, the bond- 
age of error, 
Through the sea, that shall lift the walls of its 

waters around me. 
Hiding me.cuttmg me off, from the cruel thoughts 

that pursue me. 
Back will 1 go o'er the ocean, this dreary land 

will abandon, 
Her whom I may not love, and him whom my 

heart has offended. 
Better to be in my grave in the green old church- 
yard in England, 
Close by my mother's side, and among the dust of 

my kindred ; 
Better be dead and forgotten, than living in 

shame and dishonor ! 
Sacred and safe and unseen, in the dark of the 

narrow chamber 
With me my secret shall lie, like a buried jewel 

that glimmers 
Bright on the hand that is dust in the chambers 

of silence and darkness, — 
Yes, as the marriage ring of the great espousal 

hereafter ! " 



Thus as he spake, he turned, in the strength of 

his strong resolution, 
Leaving behind him the shore, and hurried along 

in the twilight, 
Through' the congenial gloom of the forest silent 

and sombre, 
Till he beheld the lights in the seven houses of 

Plymouth, 
Shining like seven stars in the dusk and mist of 

the evening. 
Soon he entered his door, and found the redoubt- 
able Captain 
Sitting alone, and absorbed in the martial pages 

of Caesar, 
Fighting some great campaign in Hainault or 

Brabant or Flanders. 
"Long have you been on your errand," he said 

with a cheery demeanor, 
Even as one who is waiting an answer, and fears 

not the issue. 
! u Not far off is the house, although the woods are 

between us ; 
But you have lingered so long, that wdiile you 

were going and coming 
I have fought ten battles and sacked and demol- 
ished a city. 
I Come, sit down, and in order relate to me all that 

has happened." 



Then John Alden spake, and related the won- 
drous adventure. 

From beginning to end. minutely, just as it hap- 
pened ; 

How he had seen Piiscilla, and how he had sped 
in his courtship. 

Only smoothing a little, and softening down her 
refusal. 

But when he come at length to the words Priscilla 
had spoken, 

Words so tender and cruel: "Why don't you 
speak for yourself, John ? " 

Up leaped the Captain of Plymouth, and stamped 
on the floor, till his armor 

Clanged on the wall, where it hung, with a sound 
of sinister omen. 




15S 



THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 



All his pent-up wrath burst forth in a sudden 

explosion, 
E'en as a band-grenade, that scatters destruction 

around it. 
Wildly he shout -d, and loud: "John Alden ! 

you have betrayed me ! 
Me, Miles Standish, your friend ! have supplant- 
ed, defrauded, betrayed me ! 
One of my ancestors ran his sword through the 

heart of Wat Tyler ; 
Who shall prevent me from running my own 

through the heart of a traitor ! 
Yours is the greater treason, for yours is a trea- 
son to friendship ! 
You, who lived under my roof, whom I cherished 

and loved as a brother ; 
You, who have fed at my board, and drunk at my 

cup, to whose keeping 
I have intrusted my honor, my thoughts the most ; 

sacred and secret, — 
You too, Brutus ! ah woe to the name of friend- | 

ship hereafter ! 
Brutus was Caesar's friend, and you were mine, but j 

henceforward 
Let there be nothing between us save war, and ' 

implacable hatred ! " 

So spake the Captain of Plymouth, and strode | 

about in the chamber, j 

Chafing and choking with rage ; like cords were | 

the veins on his temples. 
But in the midst of his anger a man appeared at i 

the doorway, 
Bringing in uttermost haste a message of urgent 

importance, 
Rumors of danger and war and hostile incursions 

of Indians ! 
Straightway the Captain paused, and, without 

further question or parley. 
Took from the nail on the wall his sword with its \ 

scabbard of iron, 
Buckled the belt round his waist, and, frowning 

fiercely, departed. 
Alden was left alone. He heard the clank of the 

scabbard 
Growing fainter, and fainter, and dying away in 

the distance. 
Then he arose from his seat, and looked forth 

into the darkness, 
Felt the cool air blow on his cheek, that was hot 

with the insult, 
Lifted his eyes to the heavens, and, folding his 

hands as in childhood, 
Prayed in the silence of night to the Father who 

seeth in secret. 

Meanwhile the choleric Captain strode wrath- I 

f ul away to the council, 
Found it already assembled, impatiently waiting j 

his coming ; 
Men in the middle of life, austere and grave in 

deportment, 
Only one of them old, the hill that was nearest 

to heaven, 
Covered with snow, but erect, the excellent Elder 

of Plymouth. 
God had sifted three kingdoms to find the wheat 

for this planting, 
Then had sifted the wheat, as the living seed of 

a nation ; 
So say the chronicles old, and such is the faith of 

the people ! 
Near them was standing an Indian, in attitude 

stern and defiant. 
Naked down to the waist, and grim and ferocious 

in aspect ; 
While on the table before them was lying unop- 
ened a Bible, 
Ponderous, bound in leather, brass-studded, 

printed in Holland, 



And beside it outstretched the skin of a rattle- 
snake glittered, 

Filled, like a quiver, with arrows ; a signal and 
challenge of warfare, 

Brought by the Indian, and speaking with arrowy 
tongues of defiance. 

This Miles Standish beheld, as he entered, and 
heard them debating . 

What were an answer befitting the hos ile mes- 
sage and menace, 

Talking of this and of that, contriving, suggest- 
ing, objecting ; 

One voice only for peace, and that the voice of 
the Elder, 

Judging it wise and well that some at least were 
converted, 

Rather than any were slain, for this was but 
Christian behavior ! 

Then out spake Miles Standish, the stalwart Cap- 
tain of Plymouth, 

Muttering deep in bis throat, for his voice was 
husky with anger, 

' ' What ! do you mean to make war with milk 
and the water of roses ? 

Is it to shoot red squirrels you have your howitzer 
planted 

There on the roof of the church, or is it to shoot 
red devils ? 

Truly the only tongue that is understood by a 
savage . 

Must be the tongue of fire that speaks from the 
mouth of tne cannon ! " 

Thereupon answered and said the excellent Elder 
of Plymouth, 

Somewhat amazed and alarmed at this irreverent 
language : 

"Not so thought Saint Paul, nor yet the other 
Apostles ; 

Not from the cannon's mouth were the torgues 
of fire they spake with ! " 

But unheeded fell this mild rebuke on the Cap- 
tain, 

Who had advanced to the table, and thus contin- 
ued discoursirg : 

"Leave this matter to me, for to me by right it 
pertaineth 

War is a terrible trade ; but in the cause that is 
righteous, 

Sweet is the smell of powder ; and thus I answer 
the challenge ! " 

Then from the rattlesnake's skin, with a sud- 
den, contemptuous gesture, 

Jerking the Indian arrows, he filled it with pow- 
der and bullets 

Full to the very jaws, and handed it back to the 
savage, 

Saying, in thundering tones: "Here, take it! 
this is your answer ! " 

Silently out of the room then glided the glisten- 
ing savage, 

Bearing the serpent's skin, and seeming himself 
like a serpent, 

Winding his sinuous way in the dark to the 
depths of the fore&t. 



THE SAILING OF THE MAY FLOWER. 

Just in the gray of the dawn, as the mists up- 
rcse from the meadows, 

There was a stir and a sound in the slumbering 
village of Plymouth ; 

Clanging and clicking of arms, and the order im- 
perative, "Forward!" 

Given in tone suppressed, a tramp of feet, and 
then silence. 

Figures ten, in the mist, marched slowly out of 
the village. 



1 



^ 



THE COURTSHIP OP MILES STANDISH. 



159 



Standi-h the stalwart it was, with eight of his 
valorous army, 

Led by the!r Indian guide, by Hobomok, friend 
of the white men, 

Northward marching to quell the sudden revolt 
of the sa\ age 

Giants they seemed in the mist, or the mighty 
iii';n of King David ; 

Giants in heart they were, who believed in God 
and the Bible, — 

Ay, who believed in the smiting of Midianites and 
Philistines. 

Over them gl.-amed far off the crimson banners of 
morning ; 

Under them load on the sands, the serried bil- 
lows, advancing, 

Fired along the line, and in regular order re- 
treated. 

Many a mile had they marched, when at length 

the village of Plymouth 
Woke from its sleep, and arose, intent on its 

manifold labors. 
Sweet was the. air and soft ; and slowly the smoke 

from the chimneys 
Rose over roofs of thatch, and pointed steadily 

eastward ; 
Men came forth from the doors, and paused and 

talked of the weather, 
Said that the wind had changed, and was blowing 

fair for the May Flower ; 
Talked of their Captain's departure, and all the 

dangers that menaced, 
He being gone, the town, and what should be 

done in his absence. 
Merrily sang the birds, and the tender voices of 

women 
Consecrated with hymns the common cares of the 

household. ■ 

Out of the sea rose the sun, and the billows re- 
joiced at his coming ; 
Beautiful were his feet on the purple tops of the 

mountains ; 
Beautiful on the sails of the May Flower riding at 

anchor, 
Battered and blackened and worn by all the 

storms of the winter. 
Loosely against her masts was hanging and flap- 
ping her canvas, 
Rent by so many gales, and patched by the hands 

of the sailors. 
Suddenly from her side, as the sun rose over the 

ocean, 
Darted a puff of smoke, and floated seaward; 

anon rang 
Loud over field and forest the cannon's roar, and 

the echoes 
Heard and repeated the sound, the signal-gun of 

departure ! 
Ah ! but with louder echoes replied the hearts of 

the people ! 
Meekly, in voices subdued, the chapter was read 

from the Bible, 
Meekly the prayer was begun, but ended in fer- 
vent entreaty ! 
Then from their houses in haste came for'h. the 

Pilgrims of Plymouth, 
Men and women and children, all hurrying down 

to the sea-shore, 
Eager with tearful eyes, to say farewell to the 

May Flower, 
Homeward bound o'er the sea, and leaving them 

here in the desert. 



Foremost among them was Alden. All night 

he had lain without slumber, 
Turning and tossing about in the heat and unrest 

of his fever. 
He had beheld Miles Standish, who came back 

late from the council, 



Stalking into the room, and heard him mutter 

and murmur, 
Sometimes it seemed a prayer, and sometimes t 

sounded like swearing. 
Once he had come to the bed, and stood there a 

moment in silence ; 
Then he had turned away, and said : '"I will not 

awake him ; 
Let him sleep on, it is best ; for what is the use 

of more talking ! " 
Then he extinguished the light, and threw him- 
self down on his palLt, 
Dressed as he was, and ready to start at the break 

of the morning, — 
Covered himself with the cloak he had worn in 

his campaigns in Flanders, — 
Slept as a soldier sleeps in his bivouac, ready for 

action. 
But with the dawn he arose; in the twilight 

Alden beheld him 
Put on his corselet of steel, and all the rest of 

his armor. 
Buckle about his waist his trusty blade of 

Damascus, 
Take from the corner his musket, and so stride 

out of the chamber. 
Often the heart of the youth had burned and 

yearned to embrace him, 
Often his lips had essayed to speak, imploring 

for pardon ; 
All the old friendship came back, with its tender 

and grateful emotions ; 
But his pride overmastered the nobler nature 

within him, — 
j Pride, and the sense of his wrong, and the burn- 
ing fire of the insult. 
So he beheld his friend departing in anger, but 

spake not. 
Saw him go forth to danger, perhaps to death, 

and he spake not ! 
i Then he arose from his bed, and heard what the 

people were saying. 
Joined in the talk at the door, with Stephen and 

Richard and Gilbert, 
Joined in the morning prayer, and in the reading 

of Scripture, 
, And, with the others, in haste went hurrying 

down to the sea- shore. 
Down to the Plymouth Rock, that had been to 

their feet as a doorstep 
Into a world unknown, — the corner-stone of a 

nation ! 

There with his boat was the Master, already a 

little impatient 
Lest he should loose the tide, or the wind might 

shift to the eastward, 
Square-built, hearty, and strong, with an odor of 

ocean about him, 
' Speaking with this one and that, and cramming 

letters and parcels 
j Into his pockets capacious, and messages mingled 

together 
I Into his narrow brain, till at last he was wholly 

bewildered. 
Nearer the boat stood Alden, with one foot placed 

on the gunwale. 
One still firm on the rock, and talking at times 

with the sailors, 
Seated erect on the thwarts, all ready and eager 

for starting. 
He too was eager to go, and thus put an end to 

his anguish, 
Thinking to fly from despair, that swifter than 

keel is or canvas, 
Thinking to drown in the sea the ghost that 

would rise and pursue him. 
But as he gazed on the crowd, he beheld the form 

of Priscilla 
Standing dejected among them, unconscious of 

all that was passing. 



t 



160 



THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 



Fixed were her eyes upon his, as if she divined 

his intention, 
Fixed with a look so sad, so reproachful, im- 
ploring, and patient, 
That with a sudden revulsion his heart recoiled 

from its purpose, 
As from the verge of a crag, where one step 

more is destruction. 
Strange is the heart of man, with its quick, 

mysterious instincts ! 
Strange is the life of man, and fatal or fated are 

moments, 
Whereupon turn, as on hinges, the gates of the 

wall adamantine ! 
u Here I remain ! " he exclaimed, as he looked at 

the heavens above him, 
Thanking the Lord whose breath had scattered 

the mist and the madness, 
Wherein, blind and lost, to death he was stagger- 
ing headlong. 
"Yonder snow-wnite cloud, that floats in the 

ether above me, 
Seems like a hand that is pointing and beckoning 

over the ocean. 
There is another hand, that is not so spectral and 

ghost-like, 
Holding me, drawing me back, and clasping mine 

for protection. 
Float, O hand of cloud, and vanish away in the 

ether ! 
Roll thyself up like a fist, to threaten and daunt 

me ; I heed not 
Either your warning or menace, or any omen of 

evil ! 
There is no land so sacred, no air so pure and so 

wholesome, 
As is the air she breathes, and the soil that is 

pressed by her footsteps. 
Here for her sake will I stay, and like an invisible 

presence 
Hover around her forever, protecting, supporting 

her weakness ; 
Yes ! as my foot was the first that stepped on 

this rock at the landing, 
So, with the blessing of God, shall it be the last 

at the leaving ! " 

Meanwhile the Master alert, but with dignified 
air and important, 

Scanning with watchful eye the tide and the wind 
and the weather, 

Walked about on the sands, and the people 
crowded around him 

Saying a few last words, and enforcing his care- 
ful remembrance . 

Then, taking each by the hand, as if he were 
grasping a tiller. 

Into the boat he sprang, and in haste shoved off 
to his vessel, 

Glad in his heart to get rid of all this worry and 
flurry, 

Glad to be gone from a land of sand and sick- 
ness and sorrow, 

Short allowance of victual, and plenty of nothing 
but Gospel ! 

Lost in the sound of the oars was the last fare- 
well of the Pilgrims. 

O strong hearts and true ! not one went back in 
the May Flower ! 

No, not one looked back, who had set his hand to 
this ploughing ! 

Soon were heard on board,the shouts and songs 

of the sailors 
Heaving the windlass round, and hoisting the 

ponderous anchor. 
Then the yards were braced, and all sails set to 

the west-wind, 
Blowing steady and strong ; and the May Flower 

sailed from the harbor, 



Rounded the point of the Gurnet, and leaving 

far to the southward 
Island and cape of sand, and the Field of the 

First Ei counter, 
Took the wind on her quarter, and stood for the 

open Atlantic, 
Borne on the send of the sea, and the swelling 

hearts of the Pilgrims. 

Long in silence they watched the receding sail 
of the vessel, 
Much endeared to them all, as something living 

and human : 
Then, as if filled with the spirit, and wrapt in a 

vision prophetic, 
Baring his hoary head, the excellent Elder of 

Plymouth 
Said, u Let us pray!" and they prayed, and 

thanked the Lord and took courage. 
Mournfully sobbed the waves at the base of the 
I • rocks, and above them 
I Bowed and whispered the wheat on the hill of 

death, and their kindred 
1 Seemed to awake in their graves, and to join in 

the prayer that they uttered. 
I Sun-illumined and white, on the eastern verge of 

the ocean 
J Gleamed the departing sail, like a marble slab in 

a graveyard ; 
J Buried beneath it lay forever all hope of escaping. 
Lo ! as they turned to depart, they saw the form 
of an Indian, 
! Watching them from the hill ; but while they 

spake with each other, 
I Pointing with outstretched hands, and saying, 
" Look ! " he had vanished. 
So they returned to their homes ; but Alden lin- 
gered a little, 
Musing alone on the shore, and watching the 

wash of the billows 
Round the base of the rock, and the sparkle and 

flash of the sunshine, 
Like the spirit of God, moving visibly over the 
waters. 



VI. 



PRISCILLA. 

Thus for a while he stood, and mused by the 
shore of the ocean, 

Thinking of many things, and most of all of 
Priscilla ; 

And as if thought had the power to draw to 
itself, like the loadstone, 

Whatsoever it touches, by subtile laws of its 
nature, 

Lo ! as he turned to depart, Priscilla was stand- 
ing beside him. 

" Are you so much offended, you will not speak 
to me ? " said she. 

' ' Am I so much to blame, that yesterday, when 
you were pleading 

Warmly the cause of another, my heart, impuls- 
ive and wayward, 

Pleaded your own, and spake out, forgetful per- 
haps of decorum ? 

Certainly you can forgive me for speaking so 
frankly, for saying 

What I ought not to have said, yet now I can 
never unsay it ; 

For there are moments in life, when the heart is 
so full of emotion, 

That if by chance it be shaken, or into its depths 
like a pebble 

Drops some careless word, it overflows, and its 
secret, 

Spilt on the ground like water, can never be 
gathered together. 






THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 



161 



Yesterday I was shocked, when I heard you 

speak of Miles Standish, 
Praising his virtues, transforming his very de- 
fects into virtues, 
Praising his courage and strength, and even his 

fighting in Flanders, 
As if by fighting alone you could win the heart 

of a woman, 
Quite overlooking yourself and the rest, in exalt- 
ing your hero. 
Therefore I spake as I did, by an irresistible im- 
pulse. 
You will forgive me, I hope, for the sake of the 

friendship between us, 
Which is too true and too sacred to be so easily 

broken ! " 
Thereupon answered John Alden, the scholar, the 

friend of Miles Sbandish : 
" I was not angry with you, with myself alone I 

was angry, 
Seeing how badly I managed the matter I had in 

my keeping." 
" No ! " interrupted the maiden, with answer 

prompt and decisive ; 
"No ; you were angry with me, for speaking so 

frankly and freely. 
It was wrong, I acknowledge ; for it is the fate of 

a woman 
Long to be patient and silent, to wait like a 

ghost that is speechless, 
Till some questioning voice dissolves the spell of 

its silence. 
Hence is the inner life of so many suffering 

women 
Sunless and silent and deep, like subterranean 

rivers 
Running through caverns of darkness, unheard, 

unseen, and unfruitful. 
Chafing their channels of stone, with endless and 

profitless murmurs." 
Thereupon answered John Alden, the young 

man, the lover of women : 
" Heaven forbid it, Priscilla ; and truly they 

seem to me always 
More like the beautiful rivers that watered the 

garden of Eden 
More like the river Euphrates, through deserts of 

Havilah flowing, 
Filling the land with delight, and memories 

sweet of the garden ! " 
"Ah, by these words, I can see," again interrupted 

the maiden, 
" How very little you prize me, or care for what 

I am saying. 
When from the depths of my heart, in pain and 

with secret misgiving, 
Frankly I speak to you, asking for sympathy 

only and kindness, 
Straightway you take up my words, that are 

plain and direct and in. earnest, 
Turn them away from their meaning, and answer 

with flattering phrases. 
This is not right, is not just, is not true to the 

best that is in you ; 
For I know and esteem you, and feel that your 

nature is noble, 
Lifting mine up to a higher, a more ethereal 

level. 
Therefore I value your friendship, and feel it 

perhaps the more keenly 
If you say aught that implies I am only as one 

among many, 
If you make use of those common and compli- 
mentary phrases 
Most men think so fine, in dealing and speaking 

with women, 
But which women reject as insipid, if not as in- 
sulting." 

Mute and amazed was Alden ; and listened and 
looked at Priscilla, 
11 



Thinking he never had seen her more fair, more 

divine in her beauty. 
He who but yesterday pleaded so glibly the 

cause of another, 
Stood there embarrassed and silent, and seeking 

in vain for an answer. 
So the maiden went on, and little divined or im- 
agined 
What was at work in his heart, that made him so 

awkward and speechless. 
" Let us, then, be what we are, and speak what 

we think, and in all things 
Keep yourselves loyal to trutti, and the sacred 

professions of friendship. 
It is no secret I tell you, nor am I ashamed to de- 
clare it : 
I have liked to be with you, to see you, to speak 

with you always. 
So I was hurt at your words, and a little affronted 

to hear you 
Urge me to marry your friend, though he were 

the Captain M les Standish, 
For I must tell you the truth : much more to me 

is your friendship 
Than alfthe love he could give, were he twice the 

hero you think him." 
Then she extended her hand, and Alden, who 

eagerly grasped it, 
Felt all the wounds in his heart, that were aching 

and bleeding so sorely, 
Healed by the touch of that hand, and he said, 

with a voice full of feeling : 
"Yes, we must ever be friends; and of all who 

offer you friendship 
Let me be ever the first, the truest, the nearest 

and dearest ! " 

Casting a farewell look at the glimmering sail 
of the May Flower, 

Distant, but still in sight, and sinking below the 
horizon, 

Homeward together they walked, with a strange, 
indefinite feeling, 

That all the rest had departed and left them alone 
in the desert. 

But, as they went through the fields in the bless- 
ing and smile of the sunshine, 

Lighter grew their hearts, and Priscilla said very 
archly : 

"Now that our terrible Captain has gone in pur- 
suit of the Indians, 

Where he is happier far than he would be com- 
manding a household, 

You may speak boldly, and tell me of all that 
happened between you, 

When you returned last night, and said how un- 
grateful you found me." 

Thereupon answered John Alden, and told her 
the whole of the .story, — 

Told her his own despair, and the direful wrath 
of Miles Standish. 

Whereat the maiden smilel, and said between 
laughing and earnest, 

"He is a little chimnej', and heated hot in a 
moment ! " 

But as he gently rebuked her, and told her how 
he had suffered, — 

How he had even determined to sail that day in 
the May Flower, 

And had remained for her sake, on hearing the 
dangers that threatened, — 

All her manner was changed, and she said with a 
faltering accent, 

" Truly I thank you for this : how good you have 
been to me always ! " 

Thus, as a pilgrim devout, who toward Jerusa- 
lem journeys, 
Taking three steps in. advance, and one reluc- 
tantly backward^ 






162 



THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 



Urged by importunate zeal, and withheld by- 
pangs of contrition ; 

Slowly but steadily onward, receding yet ever 
advancing, 

Journeyed this Puritan youth to the Holy Land 
of his longings, 

Urged by the fervor of love, and withheld by re- 
morseful misgivings. 



VII. 

THE MATtCH OF MILES STANDISH. 

Meanwhile the stalwart Miles Standish was 

marching steadily northward, 
Winding through forest and swamp, and along 

the trend of the sea-shore, 
All day long, with hardly a halt, the fire of his 

anger 
Burning and crackling within, and the sulphurous 

odor of powder 
Seeming more sweet to his nostrils than all the 

scents of the forest. 
Silent and moody hs went, and much he revolved 

his discomfort ; 
He who was used to success, and to easy victories 

always, 
Thus to be flouted, rejected, and laughed to scorn 

by a maiden, 
Thus to be mocked and betrayed by the friend 

whom most he had trusted ! 
Ah ! 't was too much to be borne, and he fretted 

and chafed in his armor ! 

"I alone am to blame," he muttered, "for 

mine was the folly. 
What has a rough old soldier, grown grim and 

gray in the harness, 
Used to the camp and its ways, to do with the 

wooing of maidens ? 
'T was but a dream, — let it pass, — let it vanish 

like so many others ! 
What I thought was a flower, is only a weed, and 

is worthless ; 
Out of my heart will I pluck it, and throw it 

away, and henceforward 
Be but a fighter of battles, a lover and wooer of 

dangers ! " 
Thus he revolved in his mind his sorry defeat 

and discomfort, 
While he was marching by day or lying at night 

in the forest, 
Looking up at the trees, and the constellations 

beyond them. 



After a three days' march he came to an Indian 
encampment 

Pitched on the edge of a meadow, between the 
sea and the forest ; 

Women at work by the tents, and the warriors, 
horrid with war-paint, 

Seated about a fire, and smoking and talking to- 
gether ; 

Who, when thsy saw from afar the sudden ap- 
proach of the white men, 

Saw the flash of the sun on breastplate and sabre 
and musket, 

Straightway leaped to their feet, and two, from 
among them advancing, 

Came to parley with Standish, and offer him furs 
as a present ; 

Friendship was in their looks, but in their hearts 
there was hatred. 

Braves of the tribe were these, and brothers 
gigantic in stature, 

Huge as Goliath of Gath, or the terrible Og, king 
of Bashan ; 

One was Pecksuot named, and the other was 
called Wattawamat. 



Round their necks were suspended their knives 

iu scabbards of wampum, 
Two-edged, trenchant knives, with points as 

sharp as a needle. 
Other arms had they none, for they were cunning 

and crafty. 
" Welcome, English ! " they said, — these words 

they had learned from the traders 
Touching at times on the coast, to baiter and 

chaffer for peltries. 
Then in their native tongue they began to parley 

with Standish, 
Through his guide and interpreter, Hobomok, 

friend to the white man, 
Begging for blankets and knives, but mostly for 

muskets and powder, 
Kept by the white man, they said, concealed, 

with the plague, in his cellars, 
Ready to be let loose, and destroy his brother the 

red man ! 
But when Standish refused, and said he would 

give them the Bible, 
Suddenly changing their tone, they began to 

boast and to bluster. 
Then Wattawamat advanced with a stride in 

front of the other, 
And, with a lofty demeanor, thus vauntingly 

spake to the Captain : 
" Now Wattawamat can see, by the fiery eyes of 

the Captain, 
Angry is he in his heart ; but the heart of the 

brave Wattawamat 
Is not afraid at the sight. He was not born of a 

woman, 
But on a mountain, at night, from an' oak-tree 

riven by lightning, 
Forth he sprang at a bound, with all his weapons 

about him, 
Shouting, ' Who is there here to fight with the 

brave Wattawamat ? ' " 
Then he unsheathed his knife, and, whetting the 

blade on his left hand, 
Held it aloft and displayed a woman's face on the 

handle, 
Saying, with bitter expression and look of sinis- 
ter meaning : 
"I have another at home, with the face of a man 

on the handle ; 
By and by they shall marry ; and there will be 

plenty of children ! " 

Then stood Pecksuot forth, self -vaunting, in- 
sulting Miles Standish . 

While with his fingers he patted the knife that 
hung at his bosom, 

Drawing it half from its sheath, and plunging it 
back, as he muttered, 

u By and by it shall see; it shall eat; ah, ha! 
but shall speak not ! 

This is the mighty Captain the white men have 
sent to destroy us ! 

He is a little man ; let him go and work with the 
women ! " 

Meanwhile Standish had noted the faces and 

figures of Indians 
Peeping and creeping about from bush to tree in 

the forest, 
Feigning to look for game, with arrows set on 

their bow-strings, 
Drawing about him still closer and closer the net 

of their ambush. 
But undaunted he stood, and dissembled and 

treated them smoothly ; 
So the old chronicles say, that were writ in the 

days of the fathers. 
But when he heard their defiance, the boast, the 

taunt, and the insult, 
All the hot blood of his race, of Sir Hugh and of 

Thurston de Standish, 



THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 



103 



Boiled and beat in his heart, and swelled in the 

veins of his temples. 
Headlong he leaped on the boaster, and, snatch- 
ing his knife from its scabbard, 
Plunged it into his heart, and, reeling backward, 

the savage 
Fell with his face to the sky, and a fiendlike fierce- 
ness upon it. 
Straight there arose from the forest the awful 

sound of the war-whoop, 
And, like a flurry of snow on the whistling wind 

of December, 
Swift and sudden and keen came a flight of 

feathery arrows. 
Then came a cloud of smoke, and out of the 

cloud came the lightning, 
Out of the lightning thunder ; and death unseen 

ran before it. 
Frightened the savages fled for shelter in swamp 

and in thicket, 
Hotly pursued and beset ; but their sachem, the 

brave Wattawamat, 
Fled not ; he was dead. Unswerving and swift 

had a bullet 
Passed through his brain, and he fell with both 

hands clutching the greensward, 
Seeming in death to hold back from his foe the 

land of his fathers. 

There on the flowers of the meadow the war- 
riors lay, and above them, 

Silent, with folded arms, stood Hobomok, friend 
of the white man. 

Smiling at length he exclaimed to the stalwart 
Captain of Plymouth : 

"Pecksuot bragged very loud, of his courage, his 
strength, and his stature, — 

Mocked the great Captain, and called him a lit- 
tle man ; but I see now 



Big enough have you been to lay him speechless 
before you ! " 

Thus the first battle was fought and won by the 

stalwart Miles Standish. 
When the tidings thereof were brought to the 

village of Plymouth, 
And as a trophy of war the head of the brave 

Wattawamat 
Scowled from the roof of the fort, which at once 

was a church and a fortress, 
All who beheld it rejoiced, and praised the Lord, 

and took courage. 
Only Priscilla averted her face from this spectre of 

terror, 
Thanking God in her heart that she had not mar- 
ried Miles Standieh ; 
Shrinking, fearing almost, lest, coming home 

from his battles, 
He should lay claim to her hand, as the prize and 

reward of his valor. 



VIII. 

THE SPINNING-WHEEL. 

Month after month passed away, and in Autumn 

the ships of the merchants 
Came with kindred and friends, with cattle and 

corn for the Pilgrims. 
All in the village was peace ; the men were intent 

on their labors, 
Busy with hewing and building, with garden-plot 

and with merestead. 
Busy with breaking the glebe, and mowing the 

grass in the meadows. 
Searching the sea for its fish, and hunting the 

deer in the forest. 




The men were intent on their labors, busy with hewing. 



1G4 



THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 



All in the village was peace ; but at times the 

rumor of warfare 
Filled the air with alarm, and the apprehension 

of danger. 
Bravely the stalwart Standish was scouring the 

land with his forces, 
Waxing valiant in fight and defeating the alien 

armies, 
Till his name had become a sound of fear to the 

nations. 
Anger was still in his heart, but at times the re- 
morse and contrition 
Which in all noble natures succeed the passionate 

outbreak, 
Came like a rising tide, that encounters the rush 

of a river, 
Staying its current awhile, but making it bitter 

and brackish. 

Meanwhile Alden at home had built him a new 

habitation, 
Solid, substantial, of timber rough-hewn from the 

firs of the forest. 
Wooden-barred was the door, and the roof was 

covered with rushes ; 
Latticed the windows were, and the window-panes 

were of paper, 
Oiled to admit the light, while wind and rain 

were excluded. 
There too he dug a well, and around it planted an 

orchard : 
Still may be seen to this day some trace of the 

well and the orchard, ■ 
Close to the house was the stall, where, safe and 

secure from annoyance, 
Raghorn, the snow-white bull, that had fallen to 

Alden's allotment 
In the division of cattle, might ruminate in the 

night-time 
Over the pastures he cropped, made fragrant by 

sweet pennyroyal. 

Oft when his labor was finished, with eager 

feet would the dreamer 
Follow the pathway that ran through the woods 

to the house of Priscilla, 
Led by illusions romantic and subtile deceptions 

of fancy. 
Pleasure disguised as duty, and love in the sem- 
blance of friendship. 
•Ever of her he thought, when he fashioned the 

walls of his dwelling ; 
Ever of her he thought, when he delved in the 

soil of his garden ; 
Ever of her he thought, when he read in his 

Bible on Sunday 
Praise of the virtuous woman, as she is described 

in the Proverbs, — 
How the heart of her husband doth safely trust 

in her always, 
How all the days of her life she will do him good, 

and not evil. 
How she seeketh the wool and the flax and work- 

eth with gladness, 
How she layeth her hand to the spindle and hold- 

eth the distaff, 
How she is not afraid of the snow for herself or 

her household. 
Knowing her household are clothed with the scar- 
let cloth of her weaving ! 

So as she sat at her wheel one afternoon in the 

Autumn, 
Alden, who opposite sat, and was watching her 

dexterous fingers, 
As if the thread she was spinning were that of 

his life and his fortune, 
After a pause in their talk, thus spake to the 

sound of the spindle. 
" Truly, Priscilla," he said, "when I see you 

spinning and spinning, 



Never idle a moment, but thrifty and thoughtful 
of others, 

Suddenly you are transformed, are visibly 
changed in a moment ; 

You are no longer Priscilla, but Bertha the Beau- 
tiful Spinner." 

Here the Light foot on the treadle grew swifter 
and swifter ; the spindle 

Uttered an angry snarl, and the thread snapped 
short in her fingers ; 

While the impetuous speaker, not heeding the 
mischief, continued : 

"You are the beautiful Bertha, the spinner, the 
queen of Helvetia ; 

She whose story I read at a stall in the streets of 
Southampton, 

Who, as she rode on her palfrey, o'er valley and 
meadow and mountain, 

Ever was spinning her thread from a distaff 
fixed to her saddle. 

She was so thrifty and good, that her name 
passed into a proverb. 

So shall it be with your own, when the spinning- 
wheel shall no longer 

Hum in the house of the farmer, and fill its cham- 
bers with music. 

Then shall the mothers, reproving, relate how it 
was in their childhood, 

Praising the good old times, and the days of 
Priscilla the spinner ! " 

Straight uprose from her wheel the beautiful Puri- 
tan maiden, 

Pleased with the praise of her thrift from him 
whose praise was the sweetest, 

Drew from the reel on the table a snowy skein of 
her spinning, 

Thus making answer, meanwhile, to the flattering 
phrases of Alden : 

"Come, you must not be idle ; if I am a pattern 
for housewives, 

Show yourself equally worthy of being the model 
of husbands. 

Hold this skein on your hands, while I wind it, 
ready for knitting ; 

Then who knows but hereafter, when fashions 
have changed and the manners, 

Fathers may talk to their sons of the good old 
times of John Alden ! " 

Thus, with a jest and a laugh, the skein on his 
hands she adjusted, 

He sitting awkwardly there, with his arms ex- 
tended before him, 

She standing graceful, erect, and winding the 
thread from his fingers, 

Sometimes chiding a little his clumsy manner of 
holding, 

Sometimes touching his hands, as she disentan- 
gled expertly 

Twist or knot in the yarn, unawares — for how 
could she help it? " — 

Sending electrical thrills through every nerve in 
his body. 

Lo ! in the midst of this scene, a breathless 

messenger entered. 
Bringing in hurry and heat the terrible news 

from the village. 
Yes ; Miles Standish was dead ! — an Indian had 

brought them the tidings, — 
Slain by a poisoned arrow, shot down in the front 

of the battle, 
Into an ambush beguiled, cut off with the whole 

of his forces ; 
All the town would be burned, and all the people 

be murdered ! 
Such were the tidings of evil that burst on the 

hearts of the hearers. 
Silent and statue-like stood Priscilla, her face 

looking backward 
Still at the face of the speaker, her arms uplifted 

in horror ; 



THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 



165 



But John Alden, upstarting, as if the barb of the 

arrow 
Piercing the heart of his friend had struck his 

own, and had sundered 
Once and forever the bonds that held him bound 

as a captive, 
Wild with excess of sensation, the awful delight 

of his freedom, 
Mingled with pain and regret, unconscious of 

what hs was doing, 
Clasped, almost with a groan, the motionless form 

of Priscilla, 
Pressing her close to his heart, as forever his own, 

and exclaiming : 
" Those whom the Lord hath united, let no man 

put them asunder ! " 

Even as rivulets twain, form distant and sepa- 
rate sources, 
Seeing each other afar, as they leap from the 

rocks, and pursuing 
Each one its devious path, but drawing nearer 

and nearer, 
Rush together at last, at their try sting-place in 

the forest ; 
So these Ives that had run thus far in separate 

channels, 
Coming in sight of each other, then swerving and 

Sowing asunder, 
Parted by barriers strong, but drawing nearer and 

nearer, 
Rushed together at last, and one was lost in the 

other. 



IX. 



THE WEDDING-DAY. 

Forth from the curtain of clouds, from the tent 
of purple and scat let, 

Issued the sun, the great High-Priest, in his gar- 
ments resplendent, 

Holiness unto the Lord, in letters of light, on his 
forehead, 

Round the hem of his robe the golden bells and 
pomegranates. 

Blessing the world he came, and the bars of vapor 
beneath him 

Gleamed like a grate of brass, and the sea at his 
feet was a laver ! 

This was the wedding morn of Priscilla the 

Puritan maiden. 
Friends were assembled together ; the Elder and 

Magistrate also 
Graced the scene with their presence, and stood 

like the Law and the Gospel, 
One with the sanction of earth and one with the 

blessing of heaven. 
Simple and brief was the wedding, as that of 

Ruth and of Boaz. 
Softly the youth and the maiden repeated the 

* words of betrothal, 
Taking each other for husband and wife in the 

Magistrate's presence, 
After the Puritan way, and the laudable custom 

of Holland. 
Fervently then, and devoutly, the excellent Elder 

of Plymouth 
Prayed for the hearth and the home, that were 

founded that day in affection, 
Speaking of life and of death, and imploring 

Divine benedictions. 

Lo ! when the service was ended, a form ap- 
peared on the threshold, 

Clad in armor of steel, a sombre and sorrowful 
figure ! 

Why does the bridegroom start and stare at the 
strange apparition ? 



Why does the bride turn pale, and hide her face 
on his shoulder V 

Is it a phantom of air, — a bodiless, spectral illu- 
sion ? 
. Is it a ghost from the grave, that has come to for- 
bid the betrothal ? 

Long had it stood there unseen, a guest uninvited, 
unwelcomed ; 

Over its clouded eyes there had passed at times 
an expression 

Softening the gloom and revealing the warm heart 
hidden beneath them, 

As when across the sky the driving rack of the 
rain-cloud 

Grows for a moment thin, and betrays the sun by 
its brightness. 

Once it had lilted its hand, and moved its lips, 
but was silent, 

As if an iron will had mastered the fleeting in- 
tention. 

But when were ended the troth and the prayer 
and the last benediction, 

Into the room it strode, and the people beheld 
with amazement 

Bodily there in his armor Miles Standish, the 
Captain of Plymouth ! 

Grasping the bridegroom's hand, he said with 
emotion, ' ' Forgive me ! 

I have been angry and hurt, — too long have I 
cherished the feeling ; 

I have been cruel and hard, but now, thank God ! 
it is ended. 

Mine is the same hot blood that leaped in the 
veins of Hugh Standish, 

Sensitive, swift to resent, but as swift in atoning 
for error. 

Never so much as now was Miles Standish the 
friend of John Alden." 

Thereupon answered the bridegroom: "Let all 
be forgotten between us, — 

All save the dear, old friendship, and that shall 
grow older and dearer ! " 

Then the Captain advanced, and, bowing, saluted 
Priscilla, 

Gravely, and after the manner of old-fashioned 
gentry in England, 

Something of camp and of court, of town and of 
country, commingled. 

Wishing her joy of her wedding, and loudly laud- 
ing her husband. 

Then he said with a smile: "I should have re- 
membered the adage, — 

If you would be well served, you must serve your- 
self ; and moreover, 

No man can gather cherries in Kent at the season 
of Christmas ! " 

Great was the people's amazement, and greater 
yet their rejoicing, 

Thus to behold once more the sunburnt face of 
their Captain, 

Whom they had mourned as dead ; and they 
gathered and crowded about him, 

Eager to see him and hear him, forgetful of bride 
and of bridegroom. 

Questioning, answering, laughing, and each inter- 
rupting the other, 

Till the good Captain declared, being quite over- 
powered and bewildered, 

He had rather by far break into an Indian en- 
campment, 

Than come again to a wedding to which he had 
not been invited. 

Meanwhile the bridegroom went forth and stood 
with the bride at the doorway, 

Breathing the perfumed air of that warm and 
beautiful morning. 

Touched with autumnal tints, but lonely and sad 
in the sunshine, 



16C 



PROMETHEUS. 



Lay extended before them the land of toil and 

privation ; 
There were the graves of the dead, and the barren 

waste of the sea- shore, 
There the familiar fields, tne groves of pine, and 

the meadows ; 
But to their eyes transfigured, it seemed as the 

Garden of Eden, 
Filled with the presence of God, whose voice was 

the sound of the ocean. 

Soon was their vision disturbed by the noise 

and stir of departure, 
Friends coming forth from the house, and impa- 
tient of longer delaying, 
Each with his plan for the day, and the work that 

was left uncompleted . 
Then from a stall near at hand, amid exclamations 

of wonder, 
Alden the thoughtful, the careful, so happy, so 

proud of Priscilla, 
Brought out his snow-white bull, obeying the 

hand of its master, 
Led by a cord that was tied to an iron ring in its 

nostrils. 
Covered with crimson cloth, and a cushion placed 

for a saddle. 
She should not walk, he said, through the dust 

and heat of the noonday ; 
Nay, she should ride like a queen, not plod along 

like a peasant. 
Somewhat alarmed at first, but reassured by the 

others, 
Placing her hand on the cushion, her foot in the 

hand of her husband, 



Gayly, with joyous laugh, Priscilla mounted her 
palfrey. 

u Nothing is wanting now," he said with a smile, 
" but the distaff; 

Then you would be in truth my queen, my beauti- 
ful Bertha ! " 

Onward the bridal procession now moved to 

their new habitation, 
Happy husband and wife, and friends conversing 

together. 
Pleasantly murmured the brook, as they crossed 

the ford in the forest, 
Pleased with the image that passed, like a dream 

of love through its bosom, 
Tremulous, floating in air, o'er the depths of the 

azure abysses. 
Down through the golden leaves the sun was 

pouring his splendors, 
Gleaming on purple grapes, that, from branches 

■ above them suspended, 
Mingled their odorous breath with the balm of 

the pine and the fir-tree, 
Wild and sweet as the clusters that grew in the 

valley of Eshcol. 
Like a picture it seemed of the primitive, pastoral 

ages, 
Fresh with the youth of the world, and recalling 

Rebecca and Isaac, 
Old and yet ever new, and simple and beautiful 



Love immortal and young in the endless succes- 
sion of lovers. 

So through the Plymouth woods passed onward 
the bridal procession . 



BIKDS OF PASSAGE. 



. . come i gru van cantando lor lai, 
Facendo in aer di se lunga riga. 

Dante. 



PROMETHEUS, 

OR THE POET'S FORETHOUGHT. 

Of Prometheus, how undaunted 
On Olympus' shining bastions 
His audacious foot he planted, 
Myths are told and songs are chanted, 
Full of promptings and suggestions. 

Beautiful is the tradition 

Of that flight through heavenly portals 
The old classic superstition 
Of the theft and the transmission 

Of the fire of the Immortals ! 

First the deed of noble daring, 

Born of heavenward aspiration, 

Then the fire with mortals sharing, 

Then the vulture, — the despairing 

Cry of pain on crags Caucasian. 

All is but a symbol painted 

Of the Poet, Prophet, Seer ; 
Only those are crowned and sainted 
Who with grief have been acquainted, 

Making nations nobler, freer. 

In their feverish exultations, 

In their triumph and their yearning, 
In their passionate pulsations, 
In their words among the nations, 
The Promethean fire is burning. 



Shall it, then, be unavailing, 

All this toil for human culture ? 
Through the cloud-rack, dark and trailing 
Must they see above them sailing 
O'er life's barren crags the vulture ? 

Such a fate as this was Dante's, 

By defeat and exile maddened ; 
Thus were Milton and Cervantes, 
Nature's priests and Corybantes, 
By affliction touched and saddened. 



But the glories so transcendent 

That around their memories cluster, 
And, on all their steps attendant, 
Make their darkened lives resplendent 
With such gleams of inward lustre ! 



All the melodies mysterious, 

Through the dreary darkness chanted ; 
Thoughts in attitudes imperious, 
Voices soft, and deep, and serious, 

Words that whispered, songs that haunted ! 



All the soul in rapt suspension, 

All the quivering, palpitating 

Chords of life in utmost tension, 

With the fervor of invention, 

With the rapture of creating ! 



THE LADDER OF ST. AUGUSTINE.— THE PHANTOM SHIP. 



167 



Ah, Prometheus ! heaven-scaling ! 

In such hours of exultation 
Even the faintest heart, unquailing, 
Might behold the vulture sailing 

Round the cloudy crags Caucasian ! 

Though to all there is not given 

Strength for such sublime endeavor, 
Thus to scale the walls of heaven, 
And to leaven with fiery leaven 
All the hearts of men forever ; 

Yet all bards, whose hearts unblighted 

Honor and believe the presage, 
Hold aloft their torches lighted, 
Gleaming through the realms benighted, 
As they onward bear the message ! 



THE LADDER OF ST. AUGUSTINE. 

Saint Augustine ! well hast thou said, 

That of our vices we can frame 
A ladder, if we will but tread 

Beneath our feet each deed of shame ! 

All common things, each day's events, 
That with the hour begin and end, 

Our pleasures and our discontents, , 
Are rounds by which we may ascend. 

The low desire, the base design, 
That makes another's virtues less ; 

The revel of the ruddy wine, 
And all occasions of excess ; 

The longing for ignoble things ; 

The strife for triumph more than truth ; 
The hardening of the heart, that brings 

Irreverence for the dreams of youth ; 

All thoughts of ill ; all evil deeds, 

That have their root in thoughts of ill ; 

Whatever hinders or impedes 
The action of the nobler will ; — 

All these must first be trampled down 
Beneath oar feet, if we would gain 

In the bright fields of fair renown 
The right of eminent domain. 

We have not wings, we cannot soar ; 

But we have feet to scale and climb 
By slow degrees, by more and more, 

The cloudy summits of our time. 

The mighty pyramids of stone 

That wedge-like cleave the desert airs, 

When nearer seen, and better known, 
Are but gigantic flights of stairs. 

The distant mountains, that uprear 
Their solid bastions to the skies, 

Are crossed by pathwavs, that appear 
As we to higher levels rise. 

The heights by great men readier 1 , and kept 
Were not attained by sudden flight, 

But they, while their companions slept, 
Were toiling upward in the night. 

Standing on what too long we bore 

With shoulders bent and downcast eyes. 

We may discern — unse?n before, 
A path to higher destinies. 



Nor deem the irrevocable Past, 
As wholly wasted, wholly vain, 

If, rising on its wrecks, at last 
To something nobler we attain. 



THE PHANTOM SHIP. 

In Ma1h?r's Magnalia Christi, 

Of the old colonial time, 
Mav be found in prose the legend 

That is here set down in rhyme. 

A ship sailed from New Haven, 

And the keen and frosty airs, 
That filled her sails at parting. 

Were heavy with good men's prayers. 

" O Lord ! if it be thy pleasure " — 

Thus prayed the old divine — 
" To bury our friends in the ocean, 

Take them, for they are thine ! " 

But Master Lamberton muttered, 

And under his breath said he, 
lt This ship is so crank and walty 

I fear our grave she will be ! " 

And the ships that came from England, 
When the winter months were gone, 

Brought no tidings of this vessel 
Nor of Master Lamberton. 

This put the people to praying 

That the Lord would let them hear 

What in his greater wisdom 

He had done with friends so dear. 

And at last the ; r prayers were answered : — 

It was in the month of June, 
An hour before the sunset 

Of a windy afternoon, 

When, steadily steering landward, 

A ship was seen below, 
And they knew it was Lamberton, Master, 

Who sailed so long ago. 

On she came, with a cloud of canvas, 
Right against the wind that blew, 

Until the eye could distinguish 
The faces of the crew. 

Then fell her straining topmasts, 
Hanging tangled in the shrouds. 

And her sails were loosened and lifted. 
And blown away like clouds. 

And the masts, with all their rigging, 

Fell slowly, one by one, 
And the hulk dilated and vanished, 

As a sea-mist in the sun ! 

And the people who saw this marvel 

Each said unto his friend, 
That this was the mould of their vessel, 

And thus her tragic end. 

And the pastor of the village 
Gave thanks to God in prayer, 

That, to quiet their troubled spirits, 
He had sent this Ship of Air. 



168 



THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS. 



THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS. 

A mist was driving down the British Channel, 

The day was just begun, 
And through the window-panes, on floor and 
panel, 

Streamed the red autumn sun. 

It glanced on. floAving flag and rippling pennon, 

And the white sails of ships ; 
And, from the frowning rampart, the black can- 
non 

Hailed it with feverish lips. 

Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hithe, and 
Dover 

Were all alert that day, 
To see the French war-steamers speeding over, 

When the fog cleared away. 

Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions, 
Theircaunoi, through the night, 

Holding their breath, had watched, in grim defi- 
ance, 
The sea-coast opposite. 

And now they roared at drum-beat from their 
stations 

On every citadel ; 
Each answering each, with morning salutations, 

That all was well. 

And down the coast, all taking up the burden, 

Replied the distant forbs, 
As if to summon from his sleep the Warden 

And Lord of the Cinque Ports. " 

Him shall no sunshine from the fields of azure, 

No drum-beat from the wall, 
No morning gun from the black fort's embra- 
sure, 

Awaken with its call ! 

No more, surveying with an eye impartial 

The long line of the coast, 
Shall the gaunt figure of the old Field Marshal 

Be seen upon his post ! 

For in the night, unseen, a single warrior, 

In sombre harness mailed, 
Dreaded of man, and surnamed the Destroyer, 

The rampart wall had scaled. 

He passed into the chamber of the sleeper, 

The dark and silent room, 
And as he entered, darker grew, and deeper, 

The silence and the gloom. 

He did not pause to parley or dissemble, 

Bat smote the Warden hoar ; 
Ah ! what a blow ! that made -all England trem- 
ble 

And groan from shore to shore. 

Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon waited, 
The sun rose bright o'er head ; 

Nothing in Nature's aspect intimated 
That a great man was dead. 



HAUNTED HOUSES. 

ALL houses wherein men have lived and died 
Are haunted houses. Through the open doors 

The harmless phantoms on their errands glide, 
With feet that make no sound upon the floors. 



We meet them at the doorway, on the stair, 
Along the passages they come and go, 

Impalpable impressions on the air, 

A sense of something moving to and fro. 

There are more guests at table, than the hosts 

Invited ; the illuminated hall 
Is thronged with, qaiet, inoffensive ghosts, 

As silent as the pictures on the wall. 

The stranger at my fireside cannot see 

The forms I see, nor hear the sounds I hear ; 
He but perceives what is ; while unto me 
— All that has been is visible and clear. 

We have no title-deeds to house or lands ; 

Owners and occupants of earlier dates 
From graves forgotten stretch their dusty hands, 

And hold in mortmain still their old estates. 

The spirit-world around this world of sense 
Floats like an atmosphere, and everywhere 

Wafts through these earthly mists and vapors 
dense 
A vital breath of more ethereal air. 

Our little lives are kept in equipoise 
By opposite attractions and desires ; 

The struggle of the instinct that enjoys, 
And the more noble instinct that aspires. 

These perturbations, this perpetual jar 
Of earthly wants and aspirations high, 

Come from the influence of an unseen star, 
An undiscovered planet in our sky. 

And as the moon from some dark gate of cloud 
Throws o'er the sea a floating bridge of light, 

Across whose trembling planks our fancies crowd 
Into the realm of mystery and night, — 

So from the world of spirits there descends 
A bridge of light, connecting it with this, 

O'er whose unsteady floor, that sways and bends, 
Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss. 



IN THE CHURCHYARD AT CAMBRIDGE. 

In the village churchyard she lies, 
Dust is in her beautiful eyes. 

No more she breathes, nor feels, nor stirs ; 
At her feet and at her head 
Lies a slave to attend the dead, 

But their dust, is white as hers. 

Was she a lady of high degree, 
So much in love with the vanity 

And foolish pomp of this world of ours ? 
Or was it Christian charity, 
And lowliness and humility, 

The richest and rarest of all dowers ? 

Who shall tell us ? No one speaks ; 
No color shoots into those cheeks, 

Either of anger or of pride, 
At the rude question we have asked ; 
Nor will the mystery be unmasked 

By those who are sleeping at her side. 

Hereafter ? — And do you think to look 
On the terrible pages of that Book 

To find her failings, faults, and errors ? 
Ah, you wdl then have other cares, 
In your own shortcomings and despairs, 

In your own secret sins and terrors ! 



THE EMPEROR'S BIRD'S-NEST.— DAYLIGHT AND MOONLIGHT. 



169 



THE EMPEROR'S BIRD'S-NEST. 

Once the Emperor Charles of Spain, 
With his swarthy, grave commanders, 

I forget in what campaign, 

Long besieged, in mud and rain, 
Some old frontier town of Flanders. 

Up and down the dreary camp, 
In great boots of Spanish leather, 

Striding with a measured tramp, 

These Hidalgos, dull and damp, 

Cursed the Frenchmen, cursed, the weather. 

Thus as to and fro they went, t 

Over upland and through hollow, 

Giving their impatience vent, 

Perohed upon the Emperor's tent, 
In her nest, they spied a swallow. 

Yes, it was a swallow's nest, 

Built of clay and hair of horses, 
Mane, or tail, or dragoon's crest, 
Found on hedge-rows cast and west, 
After skirmish of the forces. 

Then an old Hidalgo said, 

As he twirled his gray mustachio, 

" Sure this swallow overhead 

Thinks the Emperor's tent a shed, 
A.nd the Emperor but a Macho ! " 

Hearing his imperial name 

Coupled with those words of malice, 

Half in anger, half in shame, 

Forth the great campaigner came 
Slowly from his canvas palace. 

"Let no hand the bird molest," 
Said he solemnly, "nor hurt her! " 

Adding then, by way of jest 

" Golondrina ii my guest, 
'T is the wife of some deserter ! " 

Swift as bowstring speeds a shaft, 

Through the camp was spread the rumor, 

And the soldiers, as they quaffed 

Flemish beer at dinner, laughed 
At the Emperor's pleasant humor. 

So unharmed and unafraid 

Sat the swallow still and brooded, 
Till the constant cannonade 
Through the walls a breach had made 
And the siege was thus concluded. 

Then the army, elsewhere bent. 
Struck its tsnts as if disbanding, 

Only not the Emperor's tent, 

For he ordered, ere he went, 
Very curtly, " Leave it standing ! " 

So it stood there all alone, 

Loosely napping, torn and tattered, 

Till the brood was fledged and flown, 

Singing o'er those walls of stone 

Which the cannon-shot had shattered. 



THE TWO ANGELS. 

Two angels, one of Life and one of Death, 
Passed o'er our village as the morning broke ; 

The dawn was on their faces, and beneath, 

The sombre houses hearsed with plumes of 
smoke. 



Their attitude and aspect were the same, 

Alike their features and their robes of white ; 

But one was crowned with amaranth, as with 
flame, 
And one with asphodels, like flakes of light. 

I saw them pause on their celestial way ; 

Then said I, with deep fear and doubt op- 
pressed, 
"Beat not so loud, my heart, lest thou betray 

The place where thy beloved are at rest ! " 

And he who wore the crown of asphodels, 
Descending, at my door began to knock, 

And my soul sank within me, as in wells 

The waters sink before an earthquake's 
shock. 

I recognized the nameless agony, 

The terror and the tremor and the pain, 

That oft before had filled or haunted me, 

And now returned with threefold strength 
again. 

The door I opened to my heavenly guest, 

And listened, for I thought I heard God's 
voice ; 

And, knowing whatsoe'er he sent was best, 
Dared neither to lament nor to rejoice. 

Then with a smile, that filled the house with 
light, 

"My errand is not Death, but Life/' he said; 
And ere I answered, passing oat of sight. 

On his celestial embassy he sped. 

'Twas at thy door, O friend ! and not at mine, 
The angel with the amaranthine wreath. 

Pausing, descended, and with voice divine, 

Whispered a word that had a sound like Death. 

Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom, 
A shadow on thoso features fair and thin ; 

And softly, from that hushed and darkened 
room, 
Two angels issued, wdiere but one went in. 



All is of God ! If he but wave his hand, 

The mists collect, the rain falls thick and loud, 

Till, with a smile of light on sea and land, 
Lo ! he looks back from the departing cloud. 

Angels of Life and Death alike are his ; 

Without his leave they pass no threshold o'er ; 
Who, then, would wish or dare, believing this, 

Against his messengers to shut the door ? 



DAYLIGHT AND MOONLIGHT. 

In broad daylight, and at noon, 
Yesterday I saw the moon 
Sailing high, but faint and white, 
As a school-boy's paper kits. 

In broad daylight, yesterday, 
I read a Poet's mystic lay ; 
And it seemed to me at most 
As a phantom, or a ghost. 

But at length the feverish day 
Like a passion died away, 
And the night, serene and still, 
Fell on village, vale, and hill. 



no 



THE JEWISH CEMETERY AT NEWPORT.— OLIVER BASSELIN. 



Then the moon, in all her pride, 
Like a spirit glorified, 
Filled and overflowed the night 
With revelations of her light. 

And the Poet's song again 

Passed like music through my brain ; 

Night interpreted to me 

All its grace and mystery. 



THE JEWISH CEMETERY AT 
NEWPORT. 

How strange it seems ! These Hebrews in their 
graves. 

Close by the street of this fair seaport town, 
Silent beside the never-silent waves, 

At rest in all this moving up and down ! 

The trees are white with dust, that o'er their 
sleep 
Wave their broad curtains in the south-wind's 
breath, 
While underneath these leafy tents they keep 
The long, mysterious Exodus of Death. 

And these sepulchral stones, so old and brown, 
That pave with level flags their burial place, 

Seem like the tablets of the Law, thrown down 
And broken by Moses at the mountain's base. 

The very names recorded here are strange, 
Of foreign accent, and of different climes ; 

Alvares and Rivera interchange 
With Abraham and Jacob of old times. 

" Blessed be God ! for he created Death ! " 
The mourner said, "and Death is rest and 
peace ; " 

Then added, in the certainty of faith, 

" And giveth Life that nevermore shall cease." 

Closed are the portals of their Synagogue, 
No Psalms of David now the silence break, 

No Rabbi reads the ancient Decalogue 
In the grand dialect the Prophets spake. 

Gone are the living, but the dead remain, 
And not neglected ; for a hand unseen, 

Scattering its bounty, like a summer rain, 
Still keeps their graves and their remembrance 
green. 

How came they here ? What burst of Christian 
hate, 

What persecution, merciless and blind, 
Drove o'er the sea — that desert desolate — 

These Ishmaels and Hagars of mankind ? 

They lived in narrow streets and lanes obscure, 
Ghetto and Judenstrass, in mirk and mire ; 

Taught in the school of patience to endure 
The life of anguish and the death of fire. 

All their lives long, with the unleavened bread 
And bitter herbs or exile and its fears, 

The wasting famine of the heart they fed, 

And slaked its thirst with marah of their tears. 

Anathema maranatha ! was the cry 
That rang from town to town, from street to 
street ; 
At every gate the accursed Mordecai 

Was mocked and jeered, and spivrned by Chris- 
tian feet. 



Pride and humiliation hand in hand 

Walked with them through the world where'er 
they went ; 
Trampled and beaten were they as the sand, 

And yet unshaken as the continent. 

For in the background figures vague and vast 
Of patriarchs and of prophets rose sublime, 

And all the great traditions of the Past 
They saw reflected in the coming time. 

And thus forever with reverted look 

The mystic volume of the world they read, 

Spelling it backward, like a Hebrew book, 
Till life became a Legend of the Dead. 

But ah ! what once has been shall be no more ! 

The groaning earth in travail and in pain 
Brings forth its races, but does not restore, 

And the dead nations never rise again. 



OLIVER BASSELIN. 

In the Valley of the Vire 

Still is seen an ancient mill, 
With its gables quaint and queer, 
And beneath the window-sill, 
On the stone, 
These words alone : 
"Oliver Basselin lived here." 

Far above it, on the steep, 

Ruined stands the old Chateau ; 
Nothing but the donjon-keep 
Left for shelter or for show. 
Its vacant eyes 
Stare at the skies, 
Stare at the valley green and deep. 

Once a convent, old and brown, 

Looked, but ah ! it looks no more, 
From the neighboring hillside down 
On the rushing and the roar 
Of the stream 
Whose sunny gleam 
Cheers the little Norman town. 

In that darksome mill of stone, 
To the water's dash and din, 
Careless, humble, and unknown, 
Sang the poet Basselin 
Songs that fill 
That ancient mill 
With a splendor of its own. 

Never feeling of unrest 

Broke the pleasant dream he dreamed 
Only made to be his nest, 
All the lovely valley seemed ; 
No desire 
Of soaring higher 
Stirred or fluttered in his breast. 

True, his songs were not divine; 

Were not songs of that high art, 
Which, as winds do in the pine, 
Find an answer in each heart ; 
But the mirth 
Of this green earth 
Laughed and revelled in his line. 

From the alehouse and the inn, 

Opening on the narrow street, 
Came the loud, convivial din, 
Singing and applause of feet, 
The laughing lays 
That in thos 
Sang the poet Basselin. 



VICTOR GALBRAITH 


—MY LOST YOUTH. 171 


In the castle, cased in steel, 


His soul has gone back to whence it came, 


Knights, who fought at Agincourt, 


And no one answers to the name, 


Watched and waited, spur on heel ; 


When the Sergeant saith, 


But the poet sang for sport 


" Victor Galbraith ! " 


Songs that rang 




Another clang, 


Under the walls of Monterey 


Songs that lowlier hearts could feel. 


By night a bugle is heard to play, 




Victor Galbraith ! 


In the convent, clad in gray, 


Through the mist of the valley damp and gray 


Sat the monks in lonely cells, 


The sentinels hear the sound, and say, 


Paced the cloisters, knelt to pray, 


"That is the wraith 


And the poet heard their bells ; 


Of Victor Galbraith ! " 


But his ryhmes 




Found other chimes, 




Nearer to the earth than they. 




Gone are all the barons bold, 




Gone are all the knights and squires, 




Gone the abbot stern and cold, 


MY LOST YOUTH. 


And the brotherhood of friars ; 




Not a name 


Often I think of the beautiful town 


Remains to fame, 


That is seated by the sea ; 


From those mouldering days of old ! 


Often in thought go up and down 




The pleasant streets of that clear old town, 


But the poet's memory here 


And my youth comes back to me. 


Of the landscape makes a part ; 


And a verse of a Lapland song 


Like the river, swift and clear, 


Is haunting my memory still : 


Flows his song through many a heart ; 


" A boy's will is the wind's will, 


Haunting still 


And the thoughts of youth are long, long 


That ancient mill, 


thoughts." 


In the Valley of the Vire. 






I can see the shadowy lines of its trees, 




And catch, in sudden gleams, 




The sheen of the far-surrounding seas, 
And islands that were the Hesperides 






Of all my boyish dreams. 


VICTOR GALBRAITH. 


And the burden of that old song, 




It murmurs and whispers still : 


Under the walls of Monterey 


"A boy's will is the wind's will, 


At davbreak the bugles began to play, 


And the thoughts of youth are long, long 


'Victor Galbraith ! 


thoughts." 


In the mist of the morning damp and gray, 




These were the words they seemed to say : 


I remember tie black wharves and the slips, 


t; Come forth to thy death, 


And the sea-tides tossing free ; 


Victor Galbraith ! " 


And Spanish sailors with bearded lips. 




And the beauty and mystery of the ships, 


Forth he came, with a martial tread ; 


And the magic of the sea. 


Firm was his step, erect his head ; 


And the voice of that wayward song 


Victor Galbraith, 


Is singing and saying still : 


He who so well the bugle played, 


"A boy's will is the wind's will, 


Could not mistake the words it said : 


And the thoughts of youth are long, long 


u Come forth to thy death, 


thoughts. " 


Victor Galbraith ! " 






I remember the bulwarks by the shore, 


He looked at' the earth, he looked at the sky, 


And the fort upon the hill ; 


He looked at the files of musketry, 


The sunrise gun, with its hollow ro^r 


Victor Galbraith ! 


The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er, 


And he said, with a steady voice and eye, 


And the bugle wild and shrill. 


" Take good aim ; I am ready to die !" 


And the music of that old song 


Thus challenges death 


Throbs in my memory still : 


Victor Galbraith. 


" A boy's will is the wind's will. 




And the thoughts of youth are long, long 


Twelve fiery tongues flashed straight and red, 


thoughts." 


Six leaden balls on their errand sped ; 




Victor Galbraith 


I remember the sea-fight far away, 


Falls to the ground, but he is not dead ; 


How it thundered o'er the tide ! 


His name was not stamped on those balls of lead, 


And the dead captain*, as they lay 


And they only scath 


In their graves, o'erlooking the tranquil 


Victor Galbraith. 


bay, 




Where they in battle died. 


Three balls are in his breast and brain, 


And the sound of that mournful song 


Bat he rises out of the dust again, 


Goes through me with a thrill : 


Victor Galbraith ! 


"A boy's will is the wind's will, 


The water he drinks has a bloody stain ; 


And the thoughts of youth are long, long 


" kill me, and put me out of my pain ! " 


thoughts." 


In his agony prayeth 




Victor Galbraith. 


I can see the breezy dome of groves, 




The shadows of Deering's Woods ; 


Forth dart once more those tongues of flame, 


And the friendships old and the early loves 


And the bugler has died a death of shame, 


Come back with a sabbath sound, as of doves 


Victor Galbraith ! 


In quiet neighborhoods. 









172 



THE ROPEWALK.— THE GOLDEN MILE-STONE. 



And the verse of that sweet old song, 
It flutters and murmurs still : 
"A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts." 

I remember the gleams and glooms that dart 

Across the school-boy's brain ; 
The song and the silence in the heart, 
That in part are prophecies, and in part 
Are longings wild and vain. 
And the voice of that fitful song 
Sings on, and is never still : 
41 A boy's will is the wind's will. 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts ; 

There are things of which I may not speak ; 

There are dreams that cannot die; 
There are thoughts that make the strong heart 

weak, 
And bring a pallor into the cheek, 
And a mist before the eye. 

And the words of that fatal song 
Come over me like a chill : 
" A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts." 

Strange to me now are the forms I meet 

When I visit the dear old town ; 
But the native air is pure and sweet, 
And the trees that o'ershadow each well-known 
street, 
As they balance up and down, 
Are singing the beautiful song, 
Are sighing and whispering still : 
" A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts." 

And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair, 

And with joy that is almost pain 
My heart goes back to wander there, 
And among the dreams of the days that were, 
I find my lost youth again. 

And the strange and beautiful song, 
The groves are repeating it still : 
" A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long- 
thoughts." 



THE ROPEWALK. 

In that building, long and low, 
With its windows all a-row, 

Like the port-holes of a hulk, 
Human spiders spin and spin, 
Backward down their threads so thin 

Dropping, each a hempen bulk. 

At the end, an open door ; 

■ Squares of sunshine on the floor 

Light the long and dusky lane ; 
And the whirring of a wheel, 
Dull and drowsy, makes me feel 

All its spokes are in my brain. 

As the spinners to the end 
Downward go and reascend, 

Gleam the long threads in the sun ; 
While within this brain of mine 
Cobwebs brighter and more fine 

By the busy wheel are spun. 

Two fair maidens in a swing, 
Like white doves upon the wing, 



First before my vision pass ; 
Laughing, as their gentle hands 
Closely clasp the twisted strands. 

At their shadow on the grass. 

Then a booth of mountebanks, 
With its smell of tan and planks, 

And a girl poised high in air 
On a cord, in spangled dress, 
With a faded loveliness, 

And a weary look of care. 

Then a homestead among farms, 
And a woman with bare arms 

I) rawing water from a well; 
As the bucket mounts apace, 
With it mounts her own fair face, 

As at some magician's spell. 

Then an old man in a tower, 
Ringing loud the noontide hour, 

While the rope coils round and round 
Like a serpent at his feet, 
And again, in swift retreat, 

Nearly lifts him from the ground. 

Then within a prison-yard, 
Faces fixed, and stern, and hard, 

Laughter and indecent mirth ' 
Ah ! it is the gallows-tree ! 
Breath of Christian charity, 

Blow, and sweep it from the earth ! 

Then a school-boy, with his kite 
Gleaming in a sky of light, 

And an eager, upward look; 
Steeds pursued through lane and field ; 
Fowlers with their snares concealed ; 

And an angler by a brook. 

Ships rejoicing in the breeze, 
Wrecks that float o'er unknown seas, 

Anchors dragged through faithless sand; 
Sea-fog drifting overhead, 
And, with lessening line and lead, 

Sailors feeling for the land. 

All these scenes do I behold, 
These, and many left untold, 

In that building long and low ; 
While the wheel goes round and round, 
With a drowsy, dreamy sound, 

And the spinners backward go. 



THE GOLDEN MILE-STONE. 

Leafless are the trees ; their purple branches 
Spread themselves abroad, like reefs of coral. 

Rising silent 
In the Red Sea of the winter sunset. 

From the hundred chimneys of the village, 
Like the Afreet in the Arabian story, 

Smoky columns 
Tower aloft into the air of amber. 

At the window winks the flickering fire-light ; 
Here and there the lamps of evening glimmer, 

Social watch-fires 
Answering one another through the darkness. 

On the hearth the lighted logs are glowing, 
And like Ariel in the cloven pine tree 

For its freedom 
Groans and sighs the air imprisoned in them. 



CATAWBA WINE.— 


SANTA FILOMENA. 17! 


By the fireside there are old men seated, 


Very good in its way 


Seeing ruined cities in the ashes, 


Is the Verzeuay, 


Asking sadly 


Or the Sillery soft and creamy ; 


Of the Past what it can ne'er restore them. 


But Catawba wine 




Has a taste more divine, 


By the fireside there are youthful dreamers, 


More dulcet, delicious, and dreamy. 


Building castles fair, with stately stairways, 




Asking blindly 


There grows no vine 


Of the Future what it cannot give them. 


By the haunted Rhine, 




By Danube or Guadalquivir, 


By the fireside tragedies are acted 


Nor on island or cape, 


In whose scenes appear two actors only, 


That bears such a grape 


Wife and husband, 


As grows by the Beautiful River. 


And above them God the sole spectator. 






Drugged is their juice 


By the fireside there are peace and comfort, 


For foreign use, 


Wives and children, with fair, thoughtful faces, 


When shipped o'er the reeling Atlantic, 


W'aiting, watching 


To rack our brains 


For a well-known footstep in the passage. 


With the fever pains. 




That have driven the Old World frantic. 


Each man's chimney is his Golden Mile-stone ; 




Is the central point, from which he measures 


To the sewers and sinks 


Every distance 


With all such drinks, 


Through the gateways of the world around him. 


And after them tumble the mixer ; 




For a poison malign 


In his farthest wanderings still he sees it ; 


Is such Borgia wine, 


Hears the tadring flame, the answering night- 
wind, 
As he heard them 


Or at best but a Devil's Elixir. 


While pure as a spring 


When he sat with those who were, but are not. 


Is the wine I sing, 




And to praise it, one needs but name it ; 


Happy he whom neither wealth nor fashion, 


For Catawba wine 


Nor the march of the encroaching city, 


Has need of no sign, 


Drives an exile 


No tavern-bush to proclaim it. 


From the hearth of his ancestral homestead. 






And this Song of the Vine, 


We may build more splendid habitations, 


This greeting of mine, 


Fill our rooms with paintings, and with sculp- 


The winds and the birds shall deliver 


tures, 


To the Queen of the West, 


But we cannot 


In her garlands dressed. 


Buy with gold the old associations ! 


On the banks of the Beautiful River. 


CATAWBA WINE. 


SANTA FILOMENA. 


Tins song of mine 


Whene'ek a noble deed is wrought, 


Is a Song of the Vine, 


Whene'er is spoken a noble thought, 


To be sung by the glowing embers 


Our hearts, in glad surprise, 


Of wayside inns, 


To higher levels rise. 


When the rain begins 




To darken the drear Novembers. 


The tidal waves of deeper souls 




Into our inmost being rolls, 


It is not a song 


And lifts us unawares 


Of the Scuppernong, 


Out of all meaner cares. 


From warm Carolinian valleys, 




Nor the Isabel 


Honor to those whose words or deeds 


And the Muscadel 


Thus help us in our daily needs, 


That bask in our garden alleys. 


And by their overflow 




Raise us from what is low ! 


Nor the red Mustang, 




Whose clusters hang 


Thus thought I, as by night I read 


O'er the waves of the Colorado, 


Of the great army of the dead. 


And the fiery flood 


The trenches cold and damp, 


Of whose purple blood 


The starved and frozen camp, — 


Has a dash of Spanish bravado. 






The wounded from the battle-plain, 


For richest and best 


In dreary hospitals of pain, 


Is the wine of the West, 


The cheerless corridors. 


That grows by the Beautiful River ; 


The cold and stony floors. 


Whose sweet perfume 




Fills all the room 


Lo ! in that house of misery 


With a benison on the giver. 


A lady with a lamp I see 




Pass through the glimmering gloom, 


And as hollow trees 


And flit from room to room. 


Are the haunts of bees, 




Forever going and coming ; 


And slow, as in a dream of bliss, 


So this crystal hive 


The speechless sufferer turns to kiss 


Is all alive 


Her shadow, as it falls 


With a swarming and buzzing and humming. 


Upon the darkening walls. 



174 



THE DISCOVERER OF THE NORTH CAPE. 



As if a door in heaven should be 
Opened and then closed suddenly, 
The vision came and went, 
The light shone and was spent. 

On England's annals, through the long 
Hereafter of her speech and song, 

That light its rays shall cast 

From portals of the past. 

A lady with a Lamp shall stand 
In the great history of the land, 

A noble type of good, 

Heroic womanhood. 

"Nor even shall be wanting here 
The palm, the lily, and the spear, 

The symbols that of yore 

Saint Filomena bore. * 



THE DISCOVERER OF THE NORTH 
CAPE. 

A LEAF FROM KING ALFRED'S OROSIUS. 

Othere, the old sea-captain, 

Who dwelt in Helgoland, 
To King Alfred, the Lover of Truth, 
Brought a snow-white walrus-tooth, 

Which he held in his brown right hand. 

His figure was tall and stately, 
Like a boy's his eye appeared ; 

His hair was yellow as hay, 

But threads of a silvery gray 
Gleamed in his tawny beard. 

Hearty and hale was Othere, 
His cheek had the color of oak ; 

With a kind of laugh in his speech, 

Like the sea-tide on a beach, 
As unto the King he spoke. 

And Alfred, King of the Saxons, 

Had a book upon his knees, 
And wrote down the wondrous tale 
Of him who was first to sail 

Into the Arctic seas. 

" So far I live to the northward, 

No man lives north of me ; 
To the east are wild mountain-chains, 
And beyond them meres and plains ; 

To the westward all is sea. 

" So far I live to the northward, 
From the harbor of Skeringes-hale, 

If you only sailed by day, 

With a fair wind all the way, 
More than a month would you sail. 

l 'I own six hundred reindeer, 
With sheep and swine beside ; 

I have tribute from the Finns, 

Whalebone and reindeer-skins, 
And ropes of walrus -hide. 

" I ploughed the land with horses, 

But my heart was ill at ease, 
For the old seafaring men 
Came to me now and then, 

With their sagas of the seas ; — 

" Of Iceland and of Greenland, 

And the stormy Hebrides, 
And the undiscovered deep ; — 
O I could not eat nor sleep 

For thinking of those seas. 



u To the northward stretched the desert, 

How far I fain would know ; 
So at last I sallied forth, 
And three days sailed due north, 
As far as the whale-ships go. 

" To the west of me was the ocean, 
To the right the desolate shore, 

But I did not slacken sail 

For the walrus or the whale, 
Till after three days more. 

" The days grew longer and longer, 

Till they became as one, 
And northward through the haze 
I saw the sullen blaze 

Of the red midnight sun. 

" And then uprose before me, 

Upon the water's edge, 
The huge and haggard shape 
Of that unknown North Cape, 

Whose form is like a wedge. 

" The sea was rough and stormy, 
The tempest howled and wailed, 

And the sea-fog, like a ghost, 

Haunted that dreary coast, 
But onward still I sailed. 

41 Four days I steered to eastward, 

Four days without a night : 
Round in a fiery ring 
Went the great sun, O King, 

With red and lurid light." 

Here Alfred, King of the Saxons, 

Ceased writing for a while ; 
And raised his eyes from his book, 
With a strange and puzzled look, 

And an incredulous smile. 

But Othere, the old sea-captain, 
He neither paused nor stirred, 

Till the King listened and then 

Once more took up his pen, 
And wrote down every word. 

" And now the land," said Othere, 

' ' Bent southward suddenly, 
And I followed the curving shore 
And ever southward bore 

Into a nameless sea. 

" And there we hunted the walrus, 
The narwhale, and the seal ; 

Ha ! 't was a noble game ! 

And like the lightning's flame 
Flew our harpoons of steel. 

u There were six of us all together, 

Norseman of Helgoland ; 
In two days and no more 
We killed of them threescore, 

And dragged them to the strand ! " 

Here Alfred the Truth-Teller 

Suddenly closed his book, 
And lifted his blue eyes, 
With doubt and strange surmise 

Depicted in their look. 

And Othere the old sea-captain 
Stared at him wild and weird, 
Then smiled, till his shining teeth 
Gleamed white from underneath 
His tawny, quivering beard. 



DAYBRE.\K — CHILDREN— SANDALPHON. 



175 



And to the King of the Saxons, 

In witness of the truth, 
Raising his noble head, 
He stretched his brown hand, and said, 

" Behold this walrus-tooth ! " 



DAYBREAK. 

A wind came up out of the sea, 

And said, " O mists, make room for me." 

It hailed the ships, and cried, " Sail on, 
Ye mariners, the night is gone. " 

And hurried landward far away, 
Crying, " Awake ! it is the day." 

It is said unto the forest, " Shout ! 
Hang all your leafy banners out ! " 

It touched the wood-bird's folded wings, 
And said, " O bird, awake and sing." 

And o'er the farms, " O Chanticleer, 
Your clarion blow ; the day is near." 

It whispered to the fields of corn, 
"Bow down, and hail the coming morn." 

It shouted through the belfry-tower, 
"Awake, Obeli! proclaim the hour." 

It crossed the churchyard with a sigh, 
And said, " Not yet ! in quiet lie." 



THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF 
AGASSIZ. 

May 28, 1857. 

It was fifty year ago 

In the pieasant month of May, 
In the beautiful Pays de Vaud, 

A child in its cradle lay. 

And Nature, the old nurse, took 

The child upon her knee, 
Saying : " Here is a story-book 

Thy Father has written for thee. " 

" Come, wander with me," ^he said, 

" Into regions yet untrod ; 
And read what is still unread 

In the manuscripts of God." 

And he wandered away and away 
With Nature, the dear old nurse, 

Who sang to him night and day 
The rhymes of the universe. 

And whenever the way seemed long, 

Or his heart began to fail, 
She would sing a more wonderful song, 

Or tell a more marvellous tale. 

So she keeps him still a child, 

And will not let him go, 
Though at times his heart beats wild 

For the beautiful Pays de Vaud ; 

Though at times he hears in his dreams 
The Ranz des Vaches of old, 

And the rush of mountain streams 
From glaciers clear and cold ; 



And the mother at home says, "Hark 
For his voice I listen and yearn ; 

It is growing late and daik, 
Ana my boy does not return ! " 



CHILDREN. 

Come to me, O ye children ! 

For I hear you at your play, 
And the questions that perplexed me 

Have vanished quite away. 

Ye open the eastern windows, 

That look towards the sun, 
Where thoughts are singing swallows 

And the brooks of morning run. 

In your hearts are the birds and the sun- 
shine, 

In your thoughts the brooklet's flow 
But in mine is the wind of Autumn 

And the first fall of the snow. 

Ah ! what would the world be to us 
If the children were no more ? 

We should dread the desert behind us 
Worse than the dark before. 

What the leaves are to the forest, 

With light and air for food, 
Ere their sweet and tender juices 

Have been hardened into wood, — 

That to the world are children ; 

Through them it feels the glow 
Of a brighter and sunnier climate 

Than reaches the trunks below. 

Come to me, O ye children ! 

And whisper in my ear 
What the birds and the winds are singing 

In your sunny atmosphere. 

For what are all our contrivings, 
And the wisdom of our books. 

When compared with your caresses, 
And the gladness of your looks ? 

Ye are better than all the ballads 

That ever were sung or said ; 
For ye are living poems. 

And all the rest are dead. 



SANDALPHON. 

Have you read in the Talmud of old, 
In the Legends the Rabbins have told 

Of the limitless realms of the air, 
Have you read it, — the marvellous story 
Of Sandalphon, the Angel of Glory, 

Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer ? 

How, erect, at the outermost gates 
Of the City Celestial he waits, 

With his feet on the ladder of light. 
That, crowded with angels unnumbered, 
By Jacob was seen, as he slumbered 

Alone in the desert at night '? 

The Angels of Wind and of Fire 
Chant only one hymn, and expire 

With the song's irresistible stress ; 
Expire in their rapture and wonder, 
As harp-strings are broken asunder 

By music they throb to express. 



176 



THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.— THE CUMBERLAND. 



But serene in the rapturous throng, 
Unmoved by the rush of the song, 

With eyes unimpassioned and slow, 
Among tne dead angels, the deathless 
Sandalphon stands listening breathless 

To sounds that ascend from below ; — 

From the spirits on earth that adore, 
From the souls that entreat and implore 

In the fervor and passion of prayer ; 
From the hearts that are broken with losses, 
And weary with dragging the crosses 

Too heavy for mortals to bear. 

And he gathers the prayers as he stands, 
And they change into flowers in his hands, 

Into garlands of purple and red ; 
And beneath the great arch of the portal, 
Through the streets of the City Immortal 

Is wafted the fragrance they shed. 



It is but a legend, I know, — 
A fable, a phantom, a show, 

Of the ancient Rabbinical lore ; 
Yet the old mediaeval tradition, 
The beautiful, strange superstition, 

But haunts me and holds me the more. 

When I look from my window at night, 
And the welkin above is all white, 

All throbbing and panting with stars, 
Among them majestic is standing 
Sandalphon the angel, expanding 

His pinions in nebulous bars. 

And the legend, I feel, is a part 

Of the hunger and thirst of the heart, 

The frenzy and fire of the brain, 
That grasps at the fruitage forbidden, 
The golden pomegranates of Eden, 

To quiet its fever and pain. 



FLIGHT THE SECOND. 



THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. 

Between the dark and the daylight, 
When the night is beginning to lower, 

Comes a pause in the day's occupations, 
That is known as the Children's Hour. 

I hear in the chamber above me 

The patter of little feet, 
The sound of a door that is opened, 

And voices soft and sweet. 

From my study I see in the lamplight, 
Descending the broad hall stair, 

Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, 
And Edith with golden hair. 

A whisper, and then a silence : 
Yet I know by their merry eyes 

They are plotting and planning together 
To take me by surprise. 

A sudden rush from the stairway, 
A sudden raid from the hall ! 

By three doors left unguarded 
They enter my castle wall ! 

They climb up into my turret 

O'er the arms and back of my chair ; 

If I try to escape, they surround me ; 
They seem to be everywhere. 

They almost devour me with kisses, 
Their arms about me entwine, 

Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen 
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine ! 

Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, 
Because you have scaled the wall, 

Such an old mustache as I am 
Is not a match for you all ! 

I have j'ou fast in my fortress, 

And will not let you depart, 
But put you down into the dungeon 

In the round-tower of my heart. 

And there will I keep you forever, 

Yes, forever and a day, 
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, 

And moulder in dust away ! 



ENCELADUS. 

Undetc Mount Etna he lies, 

It is slumber, it is not death ; 
For he struggles at times to arise, 
And above him the lurid skies 

Are hot with his fiery breath. 

The Qrags are piled on his breast, 

The earth is heaped on his head ; 
But the groans of his wild unrest, 
Though smothered and half suppressed, 
Are heard, and he is not dead. 

And the nations far away 

Are watching with eager eyes ; 
They talk together and say, 
" To-morrow, perhaps to-day, 

Enceladus will arise ! " 

And the old gods, the austere 

Oppressors in their strength, 
Stand aghast and white with fear 
At the ominous sounds they hear, 

And tremble, and mutter, u At length!" 

Ah me ! for the land that is sown 

With the harvest of despair ! 
Where the burning cinders, blown 
From the lips of the overthrown 

Enceladus, fill the air. 

Where ashes are heaped in drifts 

Over vineyard and field and town, 
Whenever he starts and lifts 
His head through the blackened rifts 
Of the crags that keep him down. 

See, see ! the red light shines ! 

'T is the glare of his awful eyes ! 
And the storm-wind shouts through the pin< 
Of Alps and of Apennines, 

" Enceladus, arise ! " 



THE CUMBERLAND. 

At anchor in Hampton Roads w<, lay, 

On board of the Cumberland, sloop-of-war ; 
And at times from the fortress across the bay 



SNOW-FLAKES.— A DAY OF SUNSHINE —WEARINESS. 



177 



The alarum of drums swept past, 
Of a bugle blast 
From the camp on the shore. 

Turn far away to the south uprose 

A little feather of snow-white smoke, 
And we knew that the iron ship of our foes 
Was steadily steering its course 
To try the force 
Of our ribs of oak. 

Down upon us heavily runs, 

Silent and sullen, the floating fort ; 
Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns, 
And leaps the terrible death, 
With fiery breath, 
From each open port. 

"We are not idle, but send her straight 

Defiance back in a full broadside ! 
As hail rebounds from a roof of slate, 
Rebounds our heavier hail 
From each iron scale 
Of the monster's hide. 

" Strike your flag ! " the rebel cries, 

In his arrogant old plantation strain. 
"Never ! " our gallant Morris replies ; 
"It is better to sink than to yield ! " 
And the whole air pealed 
With the cheers of our men. 

Then, like a kraken huge and black, 

She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp ! 
Down went the Cumberland all a wrack, 
With a sudden shudder of death, 
And the cannon's breath 
For her dying gasp. 

Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay. 

Still floated our flag at the mainmast head. 
Lord, how beautiful was Thy day ! 
Every waft of the air 
Was a whisper of prayer, 
Or a dirge for the dead. 

Ho ! brave hearts that went down in the seas ! 

Ye are at peace in the troubled stream ; 
Ho ! brave land ! with hearts like these, 
Thy flag, that is rent in twain, 
Shall be one again, 
And without a seam ! 



SNOW-FLAKES. 

Out of the bosom of the Air, 

Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, 
Over the woodlands brown and bare, 
Over the harvest-fields forsaken, 
Silent, and soft, and slow 
Descends the snow. 

Even as our cloudy fancies take 

Suddenly shape in some divine expression, 
Even as the troubled heart doth make 
In the white countenance confession, 
The troubled sky reveals 
The grief it feels. 

This is the poem of the air. 

Slowly in silent syllables recorded ; 
This is the secret of despair, 
Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded, 
Now whispered and revealed 
To wood and field. 

12 



A DAY OF SUNSHINE. 

gift of God ! O perfect day : 
Whereon shall no man work, but play ; 
Whereon it is enough for me, 

Not to be doing, but to be ! 

Through every fibre of my brain, 
Through every nerve, through every vein, 

1 feei the electric thrill, the touch 
Of life, that seems almost too much. 

I hear the wind among the trees 
Playing celestial symphonies ; 
I see the branches downward bent, 
i Like keys of some great instrument. 

| And over me unrolls on high 
j The splendid scenery of the sky, 
i Where through a sapphire ssa the sun 
! Sails like a golden galleon, 

j Towards yonder cloud-land in the West, 
j Towards yon er Islands of the Blest, 
I Whose steep sierra far uplifts 
' Its ciaggy summits white with drifts. 

Blow, winds ! and waft through all the rooms 
The snow-flakes of the cherry- Idooms ! 
Blow, winds ! and btnd within my reach 
The fiery blossoms of the peach ! 

O Life and Love ! O happy throng 
Of tli oughts, whose only speech is song ! 
O heart of man ! canst thou not be 
Blithe as the air is, and as free ? 



SOMETHING LEFT UNDONE 

Labor with what zeal we will, 
Something still remains undone, 

Something uncompleted still 
Waits the rising of the sun. 

By the bedside, on the stair, 

At the threshold, near the gates, 

With its menace or its prayer, 
Like a mendicant it waits ; 

Waits, and will not go away ; 

Waits,*and will not be gainsaid ; 
By the cares of yesterday 

Each to-day is heavier made ; 

Till at length the burden seems 
Greater than our strength can bear, 

Heavy as the weight of dreams, 
Pressing on us everywhere. 

And we stand from day to day. 

Like the dwarfs of times gone by, 
Who, as Northern legends say, 

On their shoulders held the sky. 



WEARINESS. 

O LTTTLE feet ! that such long years 
Must wander on through hopes and fears, 

Must ache and bleed beneath your load ; 
I. nearer to the wayside inn 
Where toil shall cease and rest begin, 

Am weary, thinking of your road ! 



FATA MORGANA.— THE HAUNTED CHAMBER.— VOX POPULI. 



O little hands ! that, weak or strong, 
Have still to serve or rule so long, 

Have still so long to give or ask ; 
I, who so much with book and pen 
Have toiled among my fellow-men, 

Am weary, thinking of your task. 

O little hearts ! that throb and beat 

With such impatient, feverish heat, 

Such limitless and strong desires ; 



Mine that so long has glowed and burned, 
With passions into ashes turned 
Now covers and conceals its fires. 

O little souls ! as pure and white 
And crystalline as rays of light 

Direct from heaven, their source divine ; 
Refracted through the mist of years, 
How red my setting sun appears, 

How lurid looks this soul of mine ! 



FLIGHT THE THIRD. 



FATA MORGANA. 

sweet illusions of Song, 
That tempt me everywhere, 

In the lonely fields, and the throng 
Of the crowded thoroughfare ! 

1 approach, and ye vanish away, 
I grasp you, and ye are gone ; 

But ever by night and by day, 
The melody soundeth on. 

As the weary traveller sees 
In desert or prairie vast, 

Blue lakes, overhung with trees, 
That a pleasant shadow cast ; 

Fair towns with turrets high, 
And shining roofs of gold, 

That vanish as he draws nigh, 
Like mists together rolled, — 

So I wander and wander along, 
And forever before me gleams 

The shining city of song, 

In the beautiful land of dreams. 

But when I would enter the gate 
Of that golden atmosphere, 

It is gone, and I wander and wait 
For the vision to reappear. 



THE HAUNTED CHAMBER. 

Each heart has its haunted chamber, 
Where the silent moonlight falls ! 

On the floor are mysterious footsteps, 
There are whispers along the walls ! 

And mine at times is haunted 

By phantoms of the Past, 
As motionless as shadows 

By the silent moonlight cast. 

A form sits by the window, 

That is not seen by day, 
For as soon as the dawn approaches 

It vanishes away. 

It sits there in the moonlight, 

Itself as pale and still, 
And points with its airv finger 

Across the window-sill. 

Without, before the window, 

There stands a gloomy pine, 
Whose boughs wave upward and downward 

As wave these thoughts of mine. 



And underneath its branches 
Is the grave of a little child, 

Who died upon life's threshold. 
And never wept nor smiled. 

What are ye, O pallid phantoms ! 

That haunt my troubled brain ? 
That vanish when day approaches, 

And at night return again ? 

What are ye, O pallid phantoms ! 

But the statues without breath, 
That stand on the bridge overarching 

The silent river of death ? 



THE MEETING. 

After so long an absence 

At last we meet again : 
Does the meeting give us pleasure, 

Or does it give us pain ? 

The tree of life has been shaken, 
And but few of us linger now, 

Like the Prophet's two or three berries 
In the top of the uppermost bough. 

We cordially greet each other 

In the old, familiar tone ; 
And we think, though we do not say it, 

How old and gray he has grown ! 

We speak of a Merry Christmas 
And many a Happy New Year ; 

But each in his heart is thinking 
Of those that are not here. 

We speak of friends and their fortunes, 
And of what they did and said, 

Till the dead alone seem living, 
And the living alone seem dead. 

And at last we hardly distinguish 
Between the ghosts and the guests ; 
nd a mist and shadow of sadness 
Steals over our merriest jests. 



VOX POPULI. 

When Mazarvan, the Magician, 

Journeyed westward through Cathay, 

Nothing heard he but the praises 
Of Badoura on his way. 



THE CASTLE-BUILDER.— FROM THE SPANISH CAXCIOXEROS. 179 


But the lessening rumor ended 


All the people of Zamora, 


When he came to Khaledan, 


Both the born and the unborn, 


There the folk were talking only 


As traitors did he challenge 


Of Prince Camaralzaman. 


With taunting words of scorn. 


So it happens with the poets : 


The living, in their houses, 


Every province hath its own ; 


And in their graves, the dead ! 


Camaralzaman is famous 


And the waters of their rivers, 


Where Badoura is unknown. 


And their wine, and oil, and bread ! 




There is a greater army, 




That besets us round with strife, 
A starving, numberless army, 






At all the gates of life. 


THE CASTLE-BUILDER. 






The poverty-stricken millions 


A gentle boy, with soft and silken locks, 


Who challenge our wine and bread, 


A dreamy boy, with brown and tender eyes, 
A castle-builder, with his wooden blocks, 


And impeach us all as traitors. 


Both the living and the dead. 


And towers that touch imaginary skies. 


And whenever I sit at the banquet, 


A fearless rider on his father's knee, 


Where the feast and song are high, 


An eager listener unto stories told 


Amid the mirth and the music 


At the Round Table of the nursery. 


I can hear that fearful cry. 


Of heroes and adventures manifold. 






And hollow and haggard faces 


There will be other towers for thee to build ; 


Look into the lighted hall, 


There will be other steeds for thee to ride ; 


And wasted hands are extended 


There will be other legends, and all filled 


To catch the crumbs that fall. 


With greater marvels and more glorified. 


For within there is light and plenty, 


Build on, and make thy castles high and fair, 


And odors fill the air ; 


Rising and reaching upward to the skies ; 


But without there is cold and darkness, 


Listen to voices in the upper air, 


And hunger and despair. 


Nor lose thy simple faith in mysteries. 


And there in the camp of famine, 




In wind and cold and rain, 




Christ, the great Lord of the army, 




Lies dead upon the plain ! 


CHANGED. 




From the outskirts of the town, 


THE BROOK AND THE WAVE. 


Where of old the mile-stone stood, 




Now a stranger, looking down 


The brooklet came from the mountain, 


I behold the shadowy crown 


As sang the bard of old, 


Of the dark and haunted wood. 


Running with feet of silver 




Over the sands of gold ! 


Is it changed, or am I changed ? 




Ah ! the oaks are fresh and green, 


• Far away in the briny ocean 


But the friends with w T hom I ranged 


There rolled a turbulent wave 


Through their thickets are estranged 


Now singing along the sea-beach, 


By the years that intervene. 


Now howling along the cave. 


Bright as ever flows the sea, 


And the brooklet has found the billow 


Bright as ever shines the sun, 


Though they flowed so far apart. 


But alas ! they seem to me 


And has filled with its freshness and sweetness 


Not the sun that used to be, 


That turbulent, bitter heart ! 


Not the tides that used to run. 




% 


FROM THE SPANISH CANCIONEROS. 


THE CHALLENGE. 


1. 


I HAVE a vague remembrance 


Of a story, that is told 


Eyes so tristful, eyes so tristful, 


In some ancient Spanish legend 


Heart so full of care and cumber, 


Or chronicle of old. 


I was lapped in rest and slumber, 




Ye have made me wakeful, wistful ! 


It was when brave King Sanchez 




Was before Zamora slain. 


In this life of labor endless 


And his great besieging army 


Who shall comfort my distresses ? 


Lay encamped upon the piain. 


Querulous my soul and friendless 




In its sorrow shuns caresses. 


Don Diego de Ordonez 

Sallied forth in front of all, 


Ye have made me, ye have made me 


Querulous of you, that care not, 


And shouted loud his challenge 


Eyes so tristful, yet I dare not 


To the warders on the wall. 


Say to what ye have betrayed me. 



180 AFTERMATH.— EPIMETHEUS. 


2 


EPIMETHEUS, 


Some day, some day, 


OR THE POET'S AFTERTHOUGHT. 


O troubled breast, 




Shalt thou find rest. 


Have I dreamed ? or was it real, 




What I saw as in a vision, 


If Love in thee 


When to marches hymeneal 


To grief give birth, 


In the land of the Ideal 


Six feet of earth 


Moved my thought o'er Fields Elysian ? 


Can more than he ; 




There calm and free 


What ! are these the guests whose glances 


And unoppressed 


Seemed like sunshine gleaming round me? 


Shalt thou find rest. 


These the wild, bewildering fancies, 




That with dithyrambic dances 


The unattained 


As with magic circles bound me ? 


In life at last, 




When life is passed, 


Ah ! how cold are their caresses ! 


Shall all be gained ; 


Pallid cheeks, and haggard bosoms ! 


And no more pained, 


Spectral gleam their snow-white dresses, 


No more distressed, 


And from loose, dishevelled tresses 


Shalt thou find rest. 


Fall the hyacinthine blossoms ! 


3. 


my songs ! whose winsome measures 




Filled my heart with secret rapture ! 


Come, Death, so silent flying 


Children of my golden leisures ! 


That unheard thy coming be, 


Must even your delights and pleasures 


Lest the sweet delight of dying 


Fade and perish with the capture ? 


Bring life back again to me. 






Fair they seemed, those songs sonorous, 


For thy sure approach perceiving 


When they came to me unbidden ; 


In my constancy and pain 


Voices single, and in chorus, 


I new life should win again, 


Like the wild birds singing o'er us 


Thinking that I am not living. 


In the dark of branches hidden. 


So to me, unconscious lying, 




All unknown thy coming be, 


Disenchantment ! Disillusion ! 


Lest the sweet delight of dying , 


Must each noble aspiration 


Bring life back again to me . 


Come at last to this conclusion, 




Jarring discord, wild confusion, 


Unto him who finds thee hateful, 


Lassitude, renunciation ? 


Death, thou art inhuman pain ; 




But to me, who dying gain, 


Not with steeper fall nor faster. 


Life is but a task ungrateful. 


From the sun's serene dominions, 


Come, then, with my wish complying, 


Not through brighter realms nor vaster, 


All unheard thy coming be, 


■ In swift rain and disaster, 


Lest the sweet delight of dying 


Icarus fell with shattered pinions ! 


Bring life back again to me. 






Sweet Pandora ! dear Pandora ! 


4. 


Why did mighty Jove create thee 


I 


Coy as Thetis, fair as Flora, 


Glove of black in white hand bare, 


Beautiful as young Aurora, 


And about her forehead pale 


If to win thee is to hate thee ? 


Wound a thin, transparent veil, 




That doth not conceal her hair ; 


No, not hate thee ! for this feeling 


Sovereign attitude and air, 


Of unrest and long resistance 


Cheek and neck alike displayed, 


Is but passionate appealing, 


With coquettish charms arrayed, 


A prophetic whisper stealing 


Laughing eyes and fugitive ; — 


O'er the chords of our existence. 


This is killing men that live, 




'T is not mourning for the dead. 


Him whom thou dost once enamor, 




Thou, beloved, never leavest ; 




In life's discord, strife, and clamor, 




Still he feels thy spell of glamour ; 






Him of Hope thou ne'er bereavest. 


AFTERMATH. 


Weary hearts by thee are nrted, 




Struggling souls by thee are strengthened, 


When the Summer fields are mown, 


Clouds of fear asunder rifted, 


When the birds are fledged and flown, 


Truth from falsehood cleansed and sifted, 


And the dry leaves strew the path ; 


Lives, like days in summer, lengthened ! 


With the falling of the snow, 




With the cawing of the crow, 


Therefore art thou ever dearer, 


Once again the fields we mow 


0, my Sibyl, my deceiver ! 


And gather in the aftermath. 


For thou makest each mystery clearer, 




And the unattained seems nearer, 


Not the sweet, new grass with flowers 


When thou fillest my heart with fever ! 


Is this harvesting of ours ; 




Not the upland clover bloom ; 


Muse of all the Gifts and Graces ! 


But the rowen mixed with weeds, 


Though the fields around us wither, 


Tangled tufts from marsh and meads, 


There are ampler realms and spaces, 


Where the poppy drops its seeds, 


Where no foot has left its traces : 


In the silence and the gloom. 


Let us turn and wander thither ! 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



181 



TxlLES OF A WAYSIDE HOT. 



PRELUDE. 



THE WAYSIDE INN. 



One Autumn night, in Sudbury town, 

Across the meadows bare and brown, 

The windows of the wayside inn 

Gleamed red with fire-light through the leaves 

Of woodbine, hanging from the eaves 

Their crimson curtains rent and thin 

As ancient is this hostelry 

As any in the land may be. 

Built in the old Colonial day, 

When men lived in a grander way, 

With ampler hospitality , 

A kind of old Hobgoblin Hall, 

Now somewhat fallen to decay, 

With weather stains upon the wall, 

And stairways worn, and crazy doors, 

And creaking and uneven floors, 

And chimneys huge, and tiled and tall. 

A region of repose it seems, 

A place of slumber and of dreams, 

Remote among the wooded hflls ! 

For there no noisy railway speeds, 

Its torch-race scattering smoke and gleeds ; 

But noon and night, the panting teams 

Stop under the great oaks, that throw 

Tangles of light and shade below, 

On roofs and doors and window-sills. 

Across the road the barns display 

Their lines of stalls, their mows of hay, 

Through the wide doors the breezes blow, 

The wattled cocks strut to and fro, 

And, half effaced by rain and shine, 

The Red Horse prances on the sign. 

Round this old-fashioned, quaint abode 
Deep silence reigned, save when a gust 
Went rushing down the county road, 
And skeletons of leaves, and dust, 
A moment quickened by its breath, 
Shuddered and danced their dance of death, 
And through the ancient oaks o'erhead 
Mysterious voices moaned and fled. 

But from the parlor of the inn 

A pleasant murmur smote the ear. 

Like water rushing through a weir : 

Oft interrupted by the din 

Of laughter and of loud applause, 

And, in each intervening pause, 

The music of a violin. 

The fire-light, shedding over all 

The splendor oflfcs ruddy glow, 

Filled the whole parlor large and low ; 

It gleamed on wainscot and on wall, 

It touched with more than wonted grace 

Fair Princess Mary's pictured face ; 

It bronzed the rafters overhead, 

On the old spinet's ivory keys 

It played inaudible melodies, 

It crowned the sombre clock with flame, 

The hands, the hours, the maker's name 

And painted with a livelier red 

The Landlord's coat-of-arms again ; 

And, flashing on the window-pane, 

Emblazoned with its light and shade 

The jovial rhymes, that still remain, 

Writ near a centurj'- ago, 

By the great Major Molineaux, 

Whom Hawthorne has immortal made. 



Before the blazing fire of wood 

Erect the rapt musician stood ; 

And ever and anon he bent 

His head upon his instrument, 

And seemed to listen till he caught 

Confessions of its secret thought, — 

The joy, the triumph, the lament,. 

The exultation and the pain ; 

Then, by the magic of his art, 

He soothed the throbbings of its heart, 

And lulled it into peace again. 

Around the fireside at their ease 
There sat a group of friends, entranced 
With the delicious melodies ; 
Who from the far-off noisy town 
Had to the wayside inn come down, 
To rest beneath its old oak-trees. 
The fire-light on their faces glanced, 
Their shadows on the wainscot danced, 
And, though of different lands and speech, 
Each had his tale to tell, and each 
Was anxious to be pleased and please. 
And while the sweet musician plays, 
Let me in outline sketch them all, 
Perchance uncouthly as the blaze 
With its uncertain touch portrays 
Their shadowy semblance on the wall. 

But first the Landlord will I trace ; 

Grave in his aspect and attire ; 

A man of ancient pedigree, 

A Justice of the Peace was he. 

Known in all Sudbury as "The Squire." 

Proud was he of his name and race, 

Of old Sir William and Sir Hugh, 

And in the parlor, full in view, 

His coat-of-arms, well framed and glazed, 

Upon the wall in colors blazed ; 

He beareth gules upon his shield, 

A chevron argent in the field, 

With three wolfs' heads, and for the crest 

A Wyvern part-per-pale addressed 

Upon a helmet barred ; below 

The scroll reads, " By the name of Howe." 

And over this, no longer bright. 

Though glimmering with a latent light, 

Was hung the sword his grandsire bore 

In the rebellious days of yore, 

Down there at Concord in the fight. 

A youth was there, of quiet ways, 

A student of old books and days, 

To whom all tongues and lands were known 

And yet a lover of his own ; 

With many a social virtue graced, 

And yet a friend of solitude ; 

A man of such a genial mood 

The heart of all things he embraced, 

And yet of such fastidious taste, 

He never found the best too good. 

Books were his passion and delight, 

And in his upper room at home 

Stood many a rare and sumptuous tome 

In vellum bound, with gold bedight, 

Great volumes garmented in white, 

Recalling Florence, Pisa, Rome. 

He loved the twilight that surrounds 

The border-land of old romance; 

Where glitter hauberk, helm, and lance, 

And banner waves, and trumpet sounds, 

And ladies ride with hawk on wrist, 

And mighty warriors sweep along, 

Magnified by the purple mist, 



182 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



The dusk of centuries and of song. 

The chronicles of Charlemagne, 

Of Merlin and the Mort d'Aithure, 

Mingled together in his brain 

With tales of Flcres and Blanchefleur, 

Sir Ferumbras, Sir Eglamour, 

Sir Launcelot, Sir Morgadour, 

Sir Guy, Sir Bevis, Sir Gawain. 



A young Sicilian, too, was there ; 

In sight of Etna born and bred, 

Some breath of its volcanic air 

Was glowing in his heart and brain, 

And, being rebellious to his liege, 

After Palermo's fatal siege, 

Across the western seas he fled, 

In good King Bomba's happy reign. 

His face was like a summer night, 

All flooded with a dusky light ; 

His hands were small ; his teeth shone white 

As sea-shells, when he smiled or spoke ; 

His sinews supple and strong as oak ; 

Clean shaven was he as a priest, 

Who at the mass on Sunday sings, 

Save that upon his upper lip 

His bescrd, a good palm's length at least, 

Level and pointed at the tip, 

Shot sideways, like a swallow's wings. 

The poets read he o'er and o'er, 

And most of all the Immortal Four 

Of Italy ; and next to those, 

The story -telling bard of prose, 

Who wrote the joyous Tuscan tales 

Of the Decameron, that make 

Fiesole's green hills and vales 

Remembered for Boccaccio's sake. 

Much too of music was his thought ; 

The melodies and measures fraught 

With sunshine and the open air, 

Of Vineyards and the singing sea 

Of his beloved Sicily ; 

And much it pleased him to peruse 

The songs of the Sicilian muse,— 

Bucolic songs by Meli sung 

In the familiar peasant tongue, 

That made men say, ; l Behold ! once more 

The pitying gods to earth restore 

Theocritus of Syracuse ! " 



A Spanish Jew from Alicant 

With aspect grand and grave was there ; 

Vender of silks and fabrics rare, 

And attar of rose from the Levant. 

Like an old Patriarch he appeared, 

Abraham or Isaac, or at least 

Some later Prophet or High-Priest ; 

With lustrous eyes, and olive skin, 

And, wildly tossed from cheeks and chin, 

The tumbling cataract of his beard. 

His garments breathed a spicy scent 

Of cinnamon and sandal blent. 

Like the soft aromatic gales 

That meet the mariner, who sails 

Through the Moluccas, and the seas 

That wash the shores of Celebes. 

All stories that recorded are 

By Pierre Alphonse he knew by heart, 

And it was rumored he could say 

The Parables of Sandabar, 

And all the Fables of Pilpay, 

Or if not all, the greater part ! 

Well versed was he in Hebrew books, 

Talmud and Targum, and the lore 

Of Kabala ; and evermore 

There was a mystery in his looks ; 

His eyes seemed gazing far away, 

As if in vision or in trance 

He heard the solemn sackbut play, 

And saw the Jewish maidens dance. 



A Theologian, from the school 

Of Cambridge on the Charles, was there ; 

Skilful alike with tongue and pen, 

He preached to all men everywhere 

The Gospel of the Golden Rule, 

The new Commandment given to men, 

Thinking the deed, and not the creed, 

Would help us in our utmost need. 

With reverent feet the earth he trod, . 

Nor banished nature from his plan, 

But studied still with deep research 

To build the Universal Church. 

Lofty as in the love of God, 

And ample as the wants of man. 

A Poet, too, was there, whose verse 

Was tender, musical, and terse ; 

The inspiration, the delight, 

The gleam, the glory, the swift flight, 

Of thoughts so sudden, that they seem 

The revelations of a dream. 

All these were his ; but with them came ' 

No envy of another's fame ; 

He did not find his sleep less sweet 

For music in some neighboring street, 

Nor rustling hear in every breeze 

The laurels of Miltiades. 

Honor and blessings on his head 

While living, good report when dead, 

Who, not too eager for renown, 

Accepts, but does not clutch, the crown ! 

Last the Musician, as he stood 

Illumined by that fire of wood ; 

Fair-haired, blue-eyed, his aspect blithe, 

His figure tall and straight and lithe, 

And every feature of his face ; 

Revealing his Norwegian race : 

A radiance, streaming from within, 

Around his eyes and forehead beamed, 

The Angel with the violin, 

Painted by Raphael, he seemed. 

He lived in that ideal world 

Whose language is not speech, but song ; 

Around him evermore the throng 

Of elves and sprites their danfees whirled ; 

The Stromkarl sang, the cataract hurled 

Its headlong waters from the height; 

And mingled in the wild delight 

The scream of sea-birds in their flight, 

The rumor of the forest trees, 

The plunge of the implacable seas, 

The tumult of the wind at night, 

Voices of eld, like trumpets blowing, 

Old ballads, and wild melodies 

Through mist and darkness pouring forth, 

Like Elivagar's river flowing 

Out of the glaciers of the North. 

The instrument on which he played 

Was in Cremona's workshops made, 

By a great master of the past, 

Ere yer, was lost the art diviM^,^ 

Fashioned of maple and of i^ne, 

That in Tyrolian forests vast 

Had rocked and wrestled with the blast : 

Exquisite was it in design, 

Perfect in each minutest part, 

A marvel of the lutist's art ; 

And in its hollow chamber, thus, 

The maker from whose hands it came 

Had written his unrivalled name, — 

" Antonius Stradivarius. " 

And when he played, the atmosphere 
Was filled with magic, and the ear 
Caught echoes of that Harp of Gold, 
Whose music had so weird a sound, 
The hunted stag forgot to bound, 
The leaping rivulet backward rolled, 
The birds came down from bush and tree. 



THE LANDLORD'S TALE. 



183 



The dead came from beneath the sea, 
The maiden to the harper's knee ! 

The music ceased ; the applause was loud, 
The pleased musician smiled and bowed ; 
The wood-fire clapped its hands of flame, 
The shadows on the wainscot stirred, 
And from the harpsichord there came 
A ghostly murmur of acclaim, 
A sound like that sent down at night 
By birds of passage in their flight, 
Prom the remotest distance heard. 

Then silence followed ; then began 
A clamor for the Landlord's tale, — 
The story promised th ;m of old, 
They said, but always left untold ; 
And he, although a bashful man, 
And all his courage seemed to fail, 
Finding excuse of no avail, 
Yielded ; and thus the story ran. 



THE LANDLORD'S TALE. 



PAUL REVERE' S RIDE. 

Listen, my children, and you shall hear 

Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, 

On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five ; 

Hardly a man is now alive 

Who remembers that famous day and year. 

He said to his friend, " If the British march 
By land or sea from the town to-night, 
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch 
Of the North Church tower as a signal light, — 
One, if by land, and two, if by sea ; 
And I on the opposite shore will be, 
Ready to ride and spread the alarm 
Through every Middlesex village and farm. 
For the country folk to be up and to arm." 

Then he said " Good night ! " and with muffled 

oar 
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, 
Just as the moon rose over the bay, 
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay 
The Somerset, British man-of-war ; 
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar 
Across the moon like a prison bar, 
And a huge black hnlk, that was magnified 
By its own reflection in the tide. 

Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street, 
Wanders and watches with eager ears, 
Till in the silence around him he hears 
The muster of men at the barrack door, 
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, 
And the measured tread of the grenadiers, 
Marching down to their boats on the shore. 

Then he climbed the tower of the Old North 

ChurtH^A. 
By the wooderH^irs, with stealthy tread, 
To the belfry-chamber overhead, 
And startled the pigeons from their perch 
On the sombre rafters, that round him made 
Masses and moving shapes of shade, — 
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall, 
To the highest window in the wall. 
Where he paused to listen and look down 
A moment on the roofs of the town, 
And the moonlight flowing over all. 

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, 
In their night-encampment on the hill, 
Wrapped in silence so deep and still 
That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, 
The watchful night-wind, as it went 
Creeping along from tent to tent, 



And seeming to whisper, '' All is well ! " 
% moment only he feels the spell 
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread 
Of the lonely belfry and the dead ; 
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent 
On a shadowy something far away, 
Where the river widens to meet the bay, — 
A line of black that bends and floats 
On the rising tide, bike a bridge of boats. 

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, 
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride 
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. 
Now he patted his horse's side, 
Now gazed at the landscape far and near, 
T/ien, impetuous, stamped the earth. 
And turned and tightened his saddle-girth ; 
But mostly he watched with eager search 
The belfry-tower of the Old North Church, 
As it rose above the graves on the hill. 
Lonely and spectral and sombre and .-till. 
And lo ! as he looks, on the belfry's height 
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light ! 
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns. 
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight 
A second lamp in the belfry burns ! 



I 

: the 



A hurry of hoofs in a village street, 

A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark. 

And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a 

spark 
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet : 
That was all ! And yet, through the gloom and 

the light, 
The fate of a nation was riding that night ; 
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his 

flight, 
Kindled the land into flame with its heat. 

He has left the village and mounted the steep, 
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, 
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides ; 
And under the alders, that skirt its edge. 
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, 
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides. 

It was twelve by the village clock 

When he crossed the bridge into Medf ord town. 

He heard the crowing of the cock. 

And the barking of the farmer's dog, 

And felt the damp of the river fog, 

That rises after the sun goes down. 

It was one by the village clock. 

When he galloped into Lexington . 

He saw the gilded weathercock 

Swim in the moonlight as he passed, 

And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, 

Gaze at him with a spectral glare, 

As if they already stood aghast 

At the bloody work they would look upon. 

Tt was two by the village clock, 

When he came to the bridge in Concord town. 

He heard the bleating of the flock. 

And the twitter of birds among the trees, 

And felt the breath of the morning breeze 

Blowing over the meadows brown. 

And one was safe and asleep in his bed 

Who at the bridge woidd be first to fall, 

Who that day would be lying dead, 

Pierced by a British musket-ball. 

You know the rest. In the books you have read, 
How the British Regulars fired and fie 1, — 
How the farmers gave them ball for ball, 
From behind each fence and farm-yard wall, 
Chasing the red-coats down the lane, 
Then crossing the fields to emerge again 
Under the trees at the turn of the road, 
And only pausing to fire and load. 



184 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 




He watched with eager search the belfry tower. 



So through the night rode Paul Revere ; 

And so through the night went his cry of alarm 

To every Middlesex village and farm, — 

A cry of defiance and not of fear, 

A voice in the darkness, a knock at the doer, 

And a word that shall echo forevermore ! 

For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, 

Through all our history, to the last, 

In the hour of darkness and peril and need, 

The people will waken and listen to hear 

The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, 

And the midnight message of Paul Revere. 



INTERLUDE. 

The Landlord ended thus his tale, 
Then rising took down from its nail 
The sword that hung there, dim with dust, 
And cleaving to its sheath with rust, 
And said, " This sword was in the fight. 1 ' 
The Poet seized it, and exclaimed, 
" It is the sword of a good knight, 
Though homespun was his coat-of-mail ; 
What matter if it be not named 
Joyeuse, Colado, Durindale, 
Excalibar, or Aroundight, 



Or other name the books record ? 
Your ancestor, who bore this sword 
As Colonel of the Volunteers, 
Mounted upon his old gray mare, 
Seen here and there and everywhere, 
To me a grander shape appears 
Than old Sir William, or what not, 
Clinking about in foreign lands 
With iron gauntlets on his hands, 
And on his head an iron pot ! " 

All laughed ; the Landlord's face grew red 

As his escutcheon on the wau ; 

He could not comprehend at all 

The drift of what the Poet said ; 

For those who had been longest dead 

Were always greatest in his eyes ; 

And he was speechless with surprise 

To see Sir William's plumed head 

Brought to a level with the rest, 

y^nd made the subject of a jest. 

And this perceiving, to appease 

The Landlord's wrath, the others' fears, 

The Student said, with careless ease, 

" The ladies and the cavaliers, 

The arms, the loves, the courtesies, 

The deeds of high emprise, I sing ! 

Thus Ariosto says, in words 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



185 



That have the stately stride and ring 

Of armed knights and clashing swords. 

Now listen to the tale I bring ; 

Listen ! though not to me belong 

The flowing draperies of his song. 

The words that rouse, the voice that charms. 

The Landlord's tale was one of arms, 

Only a tale of love is mine, 

Blending the human and divine, 

A tile of the Decameron, told 

In Palmieri's garden old, 

By Fiametta, laurel-crowned, 

While her companions lay around, 

And heard the intermingled sound 

Of airs that on their errands sped, 

And wild birds gossipping overhead, 

And lisp of leaves, and fountain's fall, 

And her own voice more sweet than all, 

Telling the tale, which, wanting these, 

Perchance may loose its power to please. " 



THE STUDENT'S TALE. 



THE FALCON OF SER FEDERIGO. 

One summer morning, when the sun was hot, 

Weary with labor in his garden-plot, 

On a rude bench beneath his cottage eaves, 

Ser Federigo sat among the leaves 

Of a huge vine, that, with its arms outspread, 

Hung m delicious clusters overhead. 

Below him, through the lovely valley, flowed 

The river Arno, like a winding road, 

And from its banks were lifted high in a : r 

The spires and roofs of Florence called the Fair ; 

To him a marble tomb, that rose above 

His wasted fortunes and his buried love. 

For there, in banquet and in tournament, 

His wealth had lavished been, his substance spent, 

To woo and lose, since ill his wooing sped, 

Monna Giovanna, who his rival wed, 

Yet ever in his fancy reigned supreme, 

The ideal woman of a young man's dream. 

Then he withdrew, in poverty and pain. 

To this small farm, the last of his domain, 

His only comfort and his only care 

To prune his vines, and plant the fig and pear ; 

His only forester and only guest 

His Falcon, faithful to him, when the rest, 

Whose willing hands had found so light of yore 

The brazen knocker of his palace door. 

Ha 1 now no strength to lift the wooden latch. 

That entrance gave beneath a roof of thatch. 

Companion of his solitary ways. 

Purveyor of his feasts on holidays, 

On him this melancholy man bestowed 

The love with which his nature overflowed. 

And so the empty-winded years went round, 
Vacant, though v4jceful with prophetic sound, 
And so, that summer morn, he sat and mused 
With folded, patient hands, as he was used, 
And dreamily before his half-closed sight 
Floated the vision of his lost delight. 
Beside him, motionless, the drowsy bird 
Dreamed of the chase, and in his slumber heard 
The sudden, scythe-like sweep of wings, that dare 
The headlong plunge thro' eddying gulfs of air, 
Then, starting broad awake upon his perch. 
Tinkled his bells, like mass-bells in a church, 
And, looking at his master, seemed to say, 
" Ser Federigo, shall we hunt to-day ? " 

Ser Federigo thought not of the chase ; 
The tender vision of her lovely face, 
I will not say he seems to see, he sees 
In the leaf-shadows of the trellises, 



Herself, yet not herself ; a lovely child 
With flowing tresses, and eyes wide and wild, 
Coming undaunted up the garden walk, 
And looking not at him, but at the hawk. 
" Beautiful falcon ! " said he, "would that I 
Might hold thee on my wrist, or see thee fly ! " 
The voice was hers, and made strange echoes start 
Through all the haunted chambers of his heart, * 
As an aeolian harp through gusty doors 
Of some old ruin its wild music pours. 

" Who is thy mother, my fair boy ? " he said, 
His hand laid softly on that shining head. 
11 Monna Giovanna. Will you let me stay 
A little while, and with your falcon play ? 
We live there, just beyond your garden wa'.l, 
In the great house behind the poplars tall." 

So he spake on ; and Fedeiigo heard 
As from afar each softly uttered word, 
And drifted onward through the golden gleams 
And shadows of the misty sea of dreams, 
As mariners becalmed through vapors drift, 
And feel the sea beneath them sink and lift, 
And hear far off the mournful breakers roar, 
And voices calling faintly from the shore ! 
Then, waking from his pleasant reveries. 
He took the little boy upon his knees. 
And told him stories of his gallant bird, 
Till in their friendship he became a third. 

Monna Giovanna. widowed in her prime, 
Had come with friends to pass the summer time 
In her <irand villa, half-way up the hill, 
O'erlooking Florence, but retired and still ; 
With iron gates, that opened through long lines 
Of sacred ilex and centennial pines. 
And terraced gardens, and broad steps of stone, 
And sylvan deities, with moss o'ergrown, 
And fountains palpitating in the heat, 
And all Val d'Arno stretched beneath its feet. 
Here in seclusion, as a widow may. 
The lovely lady whiled the hours away. 
Pacing in sable robes the statued hall, 
Herself the stateliest statue among all, 
And seeing more and more, with secret joy, 
Her husband risen and living in her boy, 
Till the lost sense of life returned again, 
Not as delight, but as relief from pain. 
Meanwhile the boy, rejoicing in his strength, 
Stormed down the terraces from length to length ; 
! The screaming peacock chased in hot pursuit, 
! And climbed the garden trellises for fruit. 
I But his chief pastime was to watch the flight 
! Of a gerfalcon, soaring into sight, 
| Beyond the trees that fringed the garden wall, 
I Then downward stooping at some distant call ; 
1 And as he gazed full often wondered he 
\\ 'ho might the master of the falcon be, 
Until that happy morning, when he found 
Master and falcon in the cottage ground. 

And now a shadow and a terror fell 
On the great house, as if a passing-bell 

; Tolled from the tower, and filled each spacious 
room 

; With secret awe, and preternatural gloom ; 

: The petted boy grew ill, and day by day 
Pined with mysterious malady away. 
The mother's heart would not be comforted ; 

] Her darling seemed to her already dead. 
And often, sitting by the sufferer's side, 
11 What can I do to comfort thee ? " she cried. 

i At first the silent lips made no reply, 

j But, moved at length by her importunate cry, 
"Give me," he answered, with imploring tone, 
" Ser Federigo's falcon for my own ! " 
No answer could the astonished mother make ; 
How could she ask, e'en for her darling's sake, 
Such favor at a luckless lover's hand. 
Well knowing that to ask was to command '? 



186 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



Well knowing, what all falconers confessed, 
In all the land that falcon was the best, 
The master's pride and passion and delight, 
And the sole pursuivant of this poor knight. 
But yet, for her child's sake, she could no less 
Than give assent, to soothe his restlessness, 
So promised, and then promising to keep 
HeL' promise sacred, saw him fall asleep. 

The morrow was a bright September morn ; 

The earth was beautiful as if new-born ; 

There was that nameless splendor everywhere, 

That wild exhilaration in the air, 

Which makes the passers in the city street 

Congratulate each other as they meet. 

Two lovely ladies, clothed in cloak and hood, 

Passed through the garden gate into the wood, 

Under the lustrous leaves, and through the sheen 

Of dewy sunshine showering down between. 

The one, close-hooded, had the attractive grace 
Which sorrow sometimes lends a woman's face ; 
Her dark eyes moistened with the mists that roll 
From the gulf-stream of passion in the soul ; 
The other with her hood thrown back, her hair 
Making a golden glory in the air, 
Her cheeks suffused with an auroral blush, 
Her young heart singing louder than the thrush. 
So walked, that morn, through mingled light and 

shade, 
Each by the other's presence lovelier made, 
Monna Giovanna and her bosom friend, 
Intent upon their errand and its end. 

They found Ser Federigo at his toil, 

Like banished Adam, delving in the soil ; 

And when he looked and these fair women spied, 

The garden suddenly was glorified ; 

His long-lost Eden was restored again, 

And the strange river winding through the plain 

No longer was the Arno to his eyes, 

But the Euphrates watering Paradise ! 

Monna Giovanna raised her stately head, 
And with fair words of salutation said : 
" Ser Federigo, we come here as friends, 
Hoping in this to make some poor amends 
For past unkindness. I who ne'er before 
Would even cross the threshold of your door, 
I who in happier days such pride maintained, 
Refused your banquets, and your gifts disdained, 
This morning come, a self-invited guest, 
To put your generous nature to the test, 
And breakfast with you under your own vine." 
To which he answered : u Poor desert of mine, 
Not your unkindness call it, for if aught 
Is good in me of feeling or of thought, 
From you it comes, and this last grace outweighs 
All sorrows, all regrets of other days." 

And after further compliment and talk, 

Among the dahlias in the garden walk 

He left his guests ; and to his cottage turned, 

And as he entered for a moment yearned 

For the lost splendors of the days of old, 

The ruby glass, the silver and the gold, 

And felt how piercing is the sting of pride, 

By want embittered and intensified. 

He looked about him for some means or way 

To keep this unexpected holiday ; 

Searched every cupboard, and then searched j 

again, 
Summoned the maid, who came, but came in j 

vain ; 
lt The Signor did not hunt to-day," she said, 
' ' There's nothing in the house but wine and j 

bread." 

Then suddenly the drowsy falcon shook 
His little bells, with that sagacious look, 



Which said, as plain as language to the ear, 
" If anything is wanting, I am here ! " 
Yes, everything is wanting, gallant bird ! 
The master seized thee without further word. 
Like thine own lure, he whirled thee round ; ah 

me ! 
The pomp and flutter of brave falconry, 
The bells, the jesses, the bright scarlet hood, 
The flight and the pursuit o 'er field and wood, 
All these f orevermore are ended now ; 
No longer victor, but the victim thou ! 

Then on the board a snow-white cloth he spread, 
Laid on its wooden dish the loaf of bread, 
Brought purple grapes with autumn sunshine hot, 
The fragrant peach, the juicy bergamot; 
Then in the midst a flask of wine he placed, 
And with autulnnal flowers the banquet graced. 
Ser Federigo, would not these suffice 
Without thy falcon stuffed with cloves and spice ? 

When all was ready, and the courtly dame 

With her companion to the cottage came, 

Upon Ser Federigo's brain there fell 

The wild enchantment of a magic spell ! 

The room they entered, mean and low and small, 

Was changed into a sumptuous banquet-hall, 

With fanfares by aerial trumpets blown ; 

The rustic chair she sat on was a throne ; 

He ate celestial food, and a divine 

Flavor was given to his country wine, 

And the poor falcon, fragrant with his spice, 

A peacock was, or bird of paradise ! 

When the repast was ended, they arose 
And passed again into the garden-close. 
Then said the lady, " Far too well I know, 
Remembering still the days of long ago, 
Though you betray it not, with what surprise 
You see me here in this familiar wise. 
You have no children, and you cannot guess, 
What anguish, what unspeakable distress, 
A mother feels, whose child is lying ill, 
Nor how her heart anticipates his will. 
And yet for this, you see me lay aside 
All womanly reserve and check of pride. 
And ask the thing most precious in your sight, 
Your falcon, your sole comfort and delight. 
Which if you find it in your heart to give, 
My poor, unhappy boy perchance may live." 

Ser Federigo listens, and replies, 

With tears of love and pity in his eyes : 

" Alas, dear lady ! there can be no task 

So sweet to me, as giving when you ask. 

One little hour ago, if I had known 

This wish of yours, it would have been my own. 

But thinking in what manner I could best 

Do honor to the presence of my guest, 

I deemed that nothing worthier could be 

Than what most dear and precious was to me, 

And so my gallant falcon breathed his last 

To furnish, forth this morning our repast." 

In mute contrition, mingled wrlh dismay, 
The gentle lady turned her eyes away, 
Grieving that he such sacrifice should make, 
And kill his falcon for a woman's sake, 
Yet feeling in her heart a woman's pride, 
That nothing she could ask for was denied ; 
Then took her leave, and passed out at the gate, 
With footstep slow and soul disconsolate. 

Three days went by, and lo ! a passing bell 
Tolled from the little chapel in the dell ; 
Ten strokes Ser Federigo heard, and said, 
Breathing a prayer, "Alas ! her child is dead ! " 
Three months went by ; and lo ! a merrier chime 
Rang from the chapei bells at Christmas time ; 
The cottage was deserted, and no more 
Ser Federigo sat beside its door, 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



187 



But now, with servitors to do his will. 
In the grand villa, half-way up the hill. 
Sat at the Christmas feast, and at his side 
Morma Giovanna, his beloved bride. 
Never so beautiful, so kind, so fair, 
Enthroned once more in the old rustic chair, 
High-perched upon the back of which there 

stood 
The image of a falcon carved in wood, 
And underneath the inscription, with a date, 
"All things come round to him who will but 

wait." 



INTERLUDE. 

Soox as the story reached its end, 
One, over eager to commend, 
Crowned it with injudicious praise ; 
And then the voice of blame found vent, 
And fanned the embers of dissent 
Into a somewhat lively blaze. 

Tne Theologian shook his head ; 
" These old Italian tales,'' he said, 
lk From the much-praised Decameron down 
Through all the rabble of the rest, 
Are either trifling, dull, or lewd ; 
The gossip of a neighborhood 



In some remote provincial town, 
A scandalous chronicle at best ! 
They seem to me a stagnant fen, 
Grown rank with rushes and with reeds, 
Where a white lily, now and then, 
Blooms in the midst of noxious weeds 
And deadly nightshade on its banks. " 

To this the Student straight replied, 

"For the white lily, many thanks ! 

One should not say, with too much pride, 

Fountain, I wt.11 not drink of thee ! 

Nor were it grateful to forget, 

That from these reservoirs and tanks 

Even imperial Shakespeare drew 

His Moor of Venice, and the Jew, 

And Romeo and Julitt, 

And many a famous comedy. " 

Then a long pause ; till some one said, 
" An angel is flying overhead ! " 
At these words spake the Spanish Jew, 
And murmured with an inward breath : 
"God grant, if what you say be true, 
It may not be the Angel of Death ! " 
And then another pause ; and then, 
Stroking his beard, he said again : 
" This brings back to my memory 
A story in the Talmud told, 




He saw the Angel of Death before him stand. 



188 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



That book of gems, that book of gold, 

Of wonders many and manifold, 

A tale that often comes to me, 

And fills my heart, and haunts my brain, 

And never wearies nor grows old." 



THE SPANISH JEW'S TALE. 

THE LEGEND OF RABBI BEN LEVI. 

Rabbi Ben Levi, on the Sabbath, read 
A volume of the Law, in which it said, 
"No man shall look upon my face and live." 
And as he read, he prayed that God would give 
His faithful servant grace with mortal eye 
To look upon His face and yet not die. 

Then fell a sudden shadow on the page, 
And, lifting up his eyes, grown dim with age, 
He saw the Angel of Death before him stand, 
Holding a naked sword in his right hand. 
Rabbi Ben Levi was a righteous man, 
Yet through his veins a chill of terror ran. 
With trembling voice he said, " What wilt thou 

here ? " 
The angel answered, "Lo ! the time draws near 
When thou must die ; yet first, by God's decree, 
Whate'er thou asked shall be granted thee. " 
Replied the Rabbi, " Let these living eyes 
First look upon my place in Paradise." 

Then said the angel, "Come with me and look." 
Rabbi Ben Levi closed the sacred book, 
And rising, and uplifting his gray head, 
"Give me thy sword," he to the Angel said, 
"Lest thou shouldst fall upon me by the way." 
The angel smiled and hastened to obey, 
Then led him forth to the Celestial Town, 
And set him on the wall, whence, gazing down, 
Rabbi Ben Levi, with his living eyes, 
Might look upon his place in Paradise. 

Then straight into the city of the Lord 

The Rabbi leaped with the Death-Angel's sword, 

And through the streets there swept a sudden 

breath 
Of something there unknown, which men call 

death. 
Meanwhile the Angel stayed without, and cried, 
"Come back!" To which the Rabbi's voice 

replied, 
" No ! in the name of God, whom I adore, 
I swear that hence I will depart no more ! " 

Then all the Angels cried, " O Holy One, 
See what the son of Levi here hath done ! 
The kingdom of Heaven he takes by violence, 
And in Thy name refuses to go hence ! " 
The Lord replied, "My Angels, be not wroth ; 
Did e'er the son of Levi break his oath ? 
Let him remain ; for he with mortal eye 
Shall look upon my face and yet not die." 

Beyond the outer wall the Angel of Death 
Heard the great voice, and said, with panting 

breath, 
" Give back the sword, and let me go my way." 
Whereat the Rabbi paused, and answered, 

_"Nay." 
Anguish enough already has it caused 
Among the sons of men." And while he paused 
He heard the awful mandate of the Lord 
Resounding through the air, "Give back the 

sword ! " 

The Rabbi bowed his head in silent prayer ; 
Then said he to the dreadful Angel, "Swear, 
No human eye shall look on it again ; 
But when thou takest away the souls of men, 



Thyself unseen, and with an unseen sword, 
Thou wilt perform the bidding of the Lord." 
The Angel took the sword again, and swore, 
And walks on earth unseen f orevermore. 



INTERLUDE, 

He ended : and a kind of spell 

Upon the silent listeners fell. 

His solemn manner and his words 

Had touched the deep, mysterious chords, 

That vibrate in each human breast 

Alike, but not alike confessed. 

The spiritual world seemed near ; 

And close above them, full of fear, 

Its awful adumbration passed, 

A luminous shadow, vague and vast. 

They almost feared to look, lest there, 

Embodied from the impalpable air, 

They might behold the Angel stand, 

Holding the sword in his right hand. 

At last, but in a voice subdued, 
j Not to disturb their dreamy mood, 
1 Said the Sicilian : ' ' While you spoke, 
Telling your legend marvellous, 
Suddenly in my memory woke 
The thought of one, now gone from us, — 
An old Abate, meek and mild, 
My friend and teacher, when a child, 
Who sometimes in those days of old 
The legend of an Angel told, 
Which ran, as I remember, thus." 



THE SICILIAN'S TALE. 

KING ROBERT OF SICILY. 

Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane 

And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, 

Apparelled in magnificent attire, 

With retinue of many a knight and squire, 

On St. John's eve, at vespers, proudly sat 

And heard the priests chant the Magnificat. 

And as he listened, o'er and o'er again 

Repeated, like a burden or refrain, 

He caught the words, " Deijosuit potentes 

Be sedc, el cxaltavil humiles ; " 

And slowly lifting up his kingly head 

He to a learned clerk beside him said, 

"What mean these Avords ? " The clerk made 

answer meet, 
" He has put down the mighty from their seat 
And has exalted them of low degree." 
Thereat King Robert muttered scornfully, 
" 'T is well that such seditious v/ords are sung 
Only by priests and in the Latin tongue ; 
For unto priests and people be it known, 
There is no power can push me from my throne ! " 
And leaning back, he yawned and fell asleep, 
Lulled by the chant monotonous and deep. 

When he awoke, it was already night ; 

The church was empty, and there was no light, 

Save where the lamps, that glimmered few and 

faint, 
Lighted a little space before some saint. 
He started from his seat and gazed around, 
But saw no living thing and heard no sound. 
He groped towards the door, but it was locked ; 
He cried aloud, and listened, and then knocked. 
And uttered awful threatenings and complaints, 
And imprecations upon men and saints. 
The sounds re-echoed from the roof and walls 
As if dead priests were laughing in their stalls. 

At length the sexton, hearing from without 
The tumult of the knocking and the shout, 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



And thinking thieves were in the house of prayer, 
Came with his lantern, asking, k ' Who is there ? " 
Half choked with rage, King Robert fiercely said, 
" Open : 't is I, the King ! Art thou afraid V " 
The' frightened sexton, muttering, with a curse, 
" This is some drunken vagabond, or worse ! " 
Turned the great key and flung the portal wide ; 
A man rushed by him at a single stride, 
Haggard, half naked, without hat or cloak, 
Who neither turned, nor looked at him, nor spoke, 
But leaped into the blackness of the night, 
And vanished like a spectre from his sight. 

Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane 
And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, 
Despoiled of his maguificent attire, 
Bareheaded, breathless, and besprent with mire, 
With sense of wrong and outrage desperate, 
Strode on and thundered at the palace gate ; 
Rushed through the courtyard, thrusting in his 

rage 
To right and left each seneschal and page, 
And hurried up the broad and sounding stair, 
His white face ghastly in the torches' glare. 
From hall to hall he passed with breathless speed ; 
Voices and cries he heard, but did not heed, 
Until at last he reached the banquet-room, 
Blazing with light, and breathing with perfume. 

There on the dais sat another king, 

Wearing his robes, his crown, his signet-ring, 

King Robert's self in features, form, and height, 

But all transfigured with angelic light ! 

Jt was an Angel ; and his presence there 

With a divine effulgence rilled the air, 

An exultation, piercing the disguise, 

Though none the hidden Angel recognized. 

A moment speechless, motionless, amazed, 
The throneless monarch on the Angel gazed, 
Who met his look of anger and surprise 
With the divine compassion of his eyes ; 
Then said, kk Who art thou ? and why com'st thou 

here?" 
To which King Robert answered, with a sneer, 
" I am the King, and come to claim my own 
From an impostor, who usurps my throne ! " 
And suddenly, at these audacious words, 
Up sprang the angry guests, and drew their 

swords ; 
The Angel answered, with unruffled brow, 
kk Nay, not the King, but the King's Jester, thou 
Henceforth shall wear the bells and scalloped 

cape, 
And for thy counsellor shalt lead an ape ; 
Thou shalt obey my servants when they call, 
And wait upon my henchmen in the hall !" 

Deaf to King Robert's threats and cries and 

prayers, 
They thrust him from the hall and down the 

stairs ; 
A group of tittering pages ran before, 
And as they opened wide the folding-door, 
His heart failed, for he heard, with strange 

alarms. 
The boisterous laughter of the men-at-arms, 
And all the vaulted chamber roar and ring 
With the mock plaudits of '* Long l.ve the 

King ! " 

Next morning, waking with the day's first, beam, 
He said within himself, " It was a dream ! " 
But the straw rustled as he turned his head, 
There were the cap and bells beside his bed, 
Around him rose the bare, discolored walls, 
Close by, the steeds were champing in their stalls, 
And in the corner, a revolting shape, 
Shivering and chattering sat the wretched ape. 
It was no dream ; the world he loved so much 
Had turned to dust and ashes at his touch ! 



Days came and went ; and now returned again 
To Sicily the old Saturnian reign ; 
| Under the Angel's governance benign 
The happy island danced with corn and wine, 
And deep within the mountain's burning breast 
Enceladus, the giant, was at rest. 

Meanwhile King Robert yielded to his fate, 
Sullen and silent and disconsolate. 
Dressed in the motley garb that Jesters wear, 
With look bewildered and a vacant stare, 
Close shaven above the ears, as monks are shorn, 
By courtiers mocked, by pages laughed to scorn, 
His only friend the ape, his only food 
What others left, — he still was unsubdued. 
And when the Angel met him on his way, 
And half in earnest, naif in jest would say, 
Sternly, though tenderly, that he might feel 
The velvet scabbard held a sword of steel, 
" Art thou the King ? " the passion of his woe 
Burst from him in resistless overflow, 
And, lifting high his forehead, he would fling 
The haughty answer back, kk I am, I am the 
King ! " 

Almost three years were ended ; when there 

came 
Ambassadors of great repute and name 
From Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, 
Unto King Robert, saying that Pope Urbane 
By letter summoned them forthwith to come 
On Holy Thursday to his city of Rome. 
The Angel with great joy received his guests, 
And gave them presents of embroidered vests, 
And velvet mantles with rich ermine lined, 
And rings and jewels of the rarest kind. 
Then he departed with them o'er the sea 
Into the lovely land of Italy, 
Whose loveliness was more resplendent made 
By the mere passing of that cavalcade, 
With plumes, and cloaks, and housings, and the 

stir 
Of jewelled bridle and of golden spur. 

And lo ! among the menials, in mock state, 
Upon a piebald steed, with shambling gait, 
His cloak of fox-tails flapping in the wind, 
The solemn ape demurely perched behind, 
King Robert rode, making huge merriment 
| In all the country towns through which they went. 

The Pope received them with great pomp and 

blare 
Of bannered trumpets on Saint Peter's square, 
Giving his benediction and embrace, 
Fervent, and full of apostolic grace. 
While with congratulations and with praj-ers 
He entertained the Angel unawares, 
Robert, the Jester, bursting through the crowd, 
Into their presence rushed, and cried aloud, 
" I am the King ! Look, and behold in me 
Robert, your brother, King of Sicily ! 
Tnis man, who wears my semblance to your eyes, 
Is an impostor in a king's disguise. 
Do j^ou not know me ? does no voice within 
Answer my cry and say we are akin ? " 
The Pope in silence, but with troubled mien, 
Gazed at the Angel's countenance serene ; 
The Emperor, laughing, said, "It is strange sport 
To keep a madman f< r thy Fool at court ! " 
And the poor, baffled Jester in disgrace 
Was hustled back among the populace. 

In solemn state the Holy Week w^ent by, 
And Easter Sunday gleamed upon the sky ; 
The presence of the Angel, with its light, 
Before the sun rose, made the city bright, 
And with new fervor filled the hearts of men. 
Who felt that Christ indeed had risen again. 
Even the Jester, on his bed of straw, 
With haggard eyes the unwonted splendor saw, 



100 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



He felt within a power unfelt before, 
And, kneeling humbly on his chamber floor, 
He heard the rushing garments of the Lord 
(Sweep through the silent air, ascending heaven- 
ward. 

And now the visit ending, and once more 
Valmond returning to the Danube's shore, 
Homeward the Angel journeyed, and again 
The land was made resplendent with his train, 
Flashing along the towns of Italy 
Unto Salerno, and from thence by sea. 
And when once more within Palermo's wall, 
And, seated on the throne in his great hall, 
He heard the Angelus from convent towers, 
As if the better world conversed with ours, 
He beckoned to King Robert to draw nigher, 
And with a gesture bade the rest retire ; 
And Avhen they were alone, the Angel said, 
"Art thoxi the King ? " Then, bowing down his 

head, 
King Robert crossed both hands upon his breast, 
And meekly answered him : " Thou knowest 

best! 
My sins as scarlet are ; let me go hence, 
And in some cloister's school of penitence, 
Across those stones that pave the way to heaven, 
Walk barefoot, till my guilty soul be shriven ! " 

The Angel smiled, and from his radiant face 

A holy light illumined all the place, 

And through the open window, loud and clear, 

They heard the monks chant in the chapel near, 

Above the stir and tumult of the street : 

11 He has put down the mighty from their seat, 

And has exalted them of low degree ! " 

And through the chant a second melody 

Rose like the throbbing of a single string : 

" I am an Angel, and thou art the King ! " 

King Robert, who was standing near the throne, 

Lifted his eyes, and lo ! he was alone ! 

But all apparelled as in days of old, 

With ermined mantle and with cloth of gold ; 

And when his courtiers came, they found him 

there 
Kneeling upon the floor, absorbed in silent prayer. 



INTERLUDE. 

And then the blue-eyed Norseman told 
A Saga of the days of old. 
"There is," said he, " a wondrous book 
Of Legends in the old Norse tongue, 
Of the dead kings of Norroway, — 
Legends that once were told or sung 
In many a smoky fireside nook 
Of Iceland, in the ancient day, 
By wandering Saga-man or Scald ; 
Heimskringla is the volume called ; 
And he who looks may find therein 
The story that I now begin. 

And in each pause the story made 

Upon his violin he played, 

As an appropriate interlude, 

Fragments of old Norwegian tunes 

That bound in one the separate runes, 

And held the mind in perfect mood, 

Entwining and encircling all 

The strange and antiquated rhymes 

With melodies of olden times ; 

As over some half-ruined wall, 

Disjointed and about to fall, 

Fresh woodbines climb and interlace, 

And keep the loosened stones in place. 



THE MUSICIAN'S TALE. 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 



THE CHALLENGE OF THOR. 

I AM the God Thor, 
I am the War God, 
I am the Thunderer ! 
Here in my Northland, 
My fastness and fortress, 
Reign I forever ! 

Here amid icebergs 
Rule I the nations ; 
This is my hammer, 
Miolner the mighty ; 
Giants and sorcerers 
Cannot withstand it ! 

These are the gauntlets 
Wherewith I wield it, 
And hurl it afar off; 
This is my girdle ; 
Whenever I brace it, 
Strength is redoubled ! 

The light thou beholdest 
Stream through the heavens, 
In flashes of crimson, 
Is but my red beard 
Blown by the night-wind, 
Affrighting the nations ! 

Jove is my brother ; 

Mine eyes are the lightning; 

The wheels of my chariot 

Roll in the thunder, 

The blows of my hammer 

Ring in the earthquake ! 

Force rules the world still, 
Has ruled it, shall rule it ; 
Meekness is weakness, 
Strength is triumphant, 
Over the whole earth 
Still it is Thor's-Day ! 

Thou art a God too, 
O Galilean ! 

And thus single-handed 
Unto the combat, 
Gauntlet or Gospel, 
Here I defy thee ! 



II. 



KING OLAF'S RETURN. 

And King Olaf heard the cry, 
Saw the red light in the sky, 

Laid his hand upon his sword, 
As he leaned upon the railing, 
And his ships went sailing, sailing 

Northward into Drontheim fiord. 

There he stood as one who dreamed ; 
And the red light glanced and gleamed 

On the armor that he wore ; 
And he shouted, as the rifted 
Streamers o'er him shook and shifted, 

"I accept thy challenge, Thor ! " 

To avenge his father slain, 
And reconquer realm and reign, 

Came the youthful Olaf home, 
Through the midnight sailing, sailing, 
Listening to the wild wind's wailing, 

And the dashing of the foam. 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



191 






To his thoughts the sacred name 
Of his mother Astrid came, 

And the tale she oft had told 
Of her flight by secret passes 
Through the mountains and morasses, 

To tne home of Hakon old. 

Then strange memories crowded back 
Of Queen Gunhild's wrath and wrack, 

And a hurried flight by sea ; 
Of grim Vikings, and the rapture 
Of the sea-fight, and the capture, 

And the lite of slavery. 

How a stranger watch erl his face 
In the Esthonian market-place, 

Scanned his features one by one. 
Saying, "We should know each other 
I am Sigurd, Astrid's brother, 

Thou art Olaf, Astrid's son ! " 

Then as Queen Allogia's page, 
Old in honors, young in age, 

Chief of all her men-at-arms ; 
Till vague whispers, and mysterious, 
Reached King Valdemar, the imperious, 

Filling him with strange alarms. 

Then his cruisings o'er the seas, 
Westward to the Hebrides, 

And to Scilly'a rocky shore ; 
And the hermit's cavern dismal, 
Christ's great name and rites baptismal, 

In the ocean's rush and roar. 



All these thoughts of love and strife 
Glimmered through his lurid life, 

As the stars' intenser light 
Through the red flames o'er him trailing, 
As his ships went sailing, sailing, 

Northward in the summer night. 

Trained for either camp or court, 
Skilful in each manly sport, 

Young and beautiful and tall ; 
Art of warfare, craft of chases, 
Swimming, skating, snow-shoe races, 

Excellent alike in all. 



When at sea, with all his rowers, 
He along the bending oars 

Outside of his ship could run. 
He the Smalsor Horn ascended. 
And his shining shield suspended 

On its summit, like a sun. 



On the ship-rails he could stand, 
Wield his sword with either hand, 

And at once two javelins throw ; 
At all feasts where ale Avas strongest 
Sat the merry monarch longest, 

First to come and last to go. 



Norway never yet had seen 
One so beautiful of mien, 

One so royal in attire. 
When in arms completely furnished, 
Harness gold-inlaid and burnished, 

Mantle like a flame of fire. 



Thus came Olaf to his own, 
When upon the night-wind blown 

Passed that cry along the shore ; 
And he answered, while the rifted 
Streamers o'er him shook and shifted, 

"I accept thy challenge, Thor ! " 



III. 



THORA OP ItlMOL. 

" TriORA of Rimol ! hide me ! hide me ! 
Danger and shame and death betide me ! 
For Olaf the King is hunting me down 
Through field and forest, through thorp and 
town ! " 

Thus cried Jarl Hakon 

To Thora, the fairest of women. 

" Hakon Jarl ! for the love I bear thee 
Neither shall shame nor death come near thee ! 
But the hiding-place wherein thou must lie 
Is the cave underneath the swine in the sty." 

Thus to Jarl Hakon 

Said Taora, the fairest of women. 

So Hakon Jarl and his base thrall Karker 
Crouched in the cave, than a dungeon darker, 
As Olaf came riding, with men in mail, 
Through the forest roads into Orkadale, 

Demanding Jarl Hakon 

Of Thora, the fairest of women. 

"Rich and honored shall be whoever 
The head of Hakon Jarl shall dissever ! " 
Hakon heard him, and Karker the slave. 
Through the breathing-holes of the darksome 
cave ; 

Alone in her chamber 

Wept Thora, the fairest of women. 

Said Karker, the crafty, "I will not slay thee ! 
For all the king's gold I will never betray thee ! " 
"Then why dost thou turn so pale, O churl, 
And then again black as the earth ? " said the Earl. 
More pale and more faithful 
Was Thora, the fairest of women. 



I From a dream in the night the thrall started, 
gold ring King Olaf was 



saying, 
"Round my neck 

laving ! " 

And Hakon answered, " Beware of the king ! 
He will lay round thy neck a blood-red ring." 
At the ring on her finger 
Gazed Thora, the fairest of women. 

At daybreak slept Hakon, with sorrows encum- 
bered, 
But screamed, and drew up his feet as he slum- 
bered ; 
The thrall in the darkness plunged with his 

knife, 
And the Earl awakened no more in this life. 
But wakeful and weeping 
Sat Thora, the fairest of women. 

At Nidarholm the priests are all shiging. 
Two ghastly heads on the gibbet are swinging; 
One is Jarl Hakon' s, and one is his thrall's, 
And the* people are shouting from Avindows and 
walls ; 
While alone in her chamber, 
SAVoons Thora, the fairest of Avomen. 



IV. 



QEEEX STGUIT) THE nAEGHTV. 

QtJEEN Sigrid the Haughty sat proud and aloft 
In her chamber, that "looked over meadoAV and 
croft. 

Heart's dearest, 

Why dost thou sorroAV so ? 

The floor with tassels of fir Avas besprent, 
Filling the room Avith their fragrant scent. 



192 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



She heard the birds sing, she saw the sun shine, 
The air of summer was sweeter than wine. 

Like a sword without scabbard the bright river 

lay 
Between her own kingdom and Norroway. 

But Olaf the King had sued for her hand, 
The sword would ba sheathed, the river be 
spanned. 

Her maidens were seated around her knee, 
Working bright figures in tapestry. 

And one was singing the ancient rune 

Of Brynhilda's love and the wrath of Gudrun. 

And through it, and round it, and over it all 
Sounded incessant the waterfall. 

The Queen in her hand held a ring of gold, 
From the door of Lade's Temple old. 

King Olaf had sent her this wedding gift, 

But her thoughts as arrows were keen and swift. 

She had given the ring to her goldsmith's twain, 
Who smiled, as they handed it back again. 

And Sigrid the Queen, in her haughty way, 
Said, "Why do you smile, my goldsmiths, say ? " 

And they answered: "O Queen! if the truth 

must be told, 
The ring is of copper, and not of gold ! " 

The lightning flashed o'er her forehead and cheek, 
She only murmured, she did not speak : 

" If in his gifts he can faithless be, 
There will be no gold in his love to me." 

A footstep was heard on the outer stair, 
And in strode King Olaf with royal air. 

He kissed the Queen's hand, and he whispered of 

love, 
And swore to be true as the stars are above. 

But she smiled with contempt as she answered : 

"OKing, 
Will you swear it, as Odin once swore, on the 

ring ? " 

And the King : "O speak not of Odin to me, 
The wife of King Olaf a Christian must be. " 

Looking straight at the King, with her level 

brows, 
She said, "I keep true to my faith and my 

vows." 

Then the face of King Olaf was darkened with 

gloom, 
He rose in his anger and strode through the room. 

" Why, then, should I care to have thee ? " he 

said, — 
" A faded old woman, a heathenish jade ! " 

His zeal was stronger than fear or love, 
And he struck the Queen in the face with his 
glove. 

Then forth from the chamber in anger he fled, 
And the wooden stairway shook with his tread. 

Queen Sigrid the Haughty said under her breath, 
"This insult, King Olaf, shall be thy death ! " 

Heart's dearest, 

Why dost thou sorrow so ? 



THE SKERRY OF SHRIEKS. 

Now from all King Olaf's farms 

His men-at-arms 
Gathered on the Eve of Easter ; 
To his house at Angvalds-ness 

Fast they press, 
Drinking with the royal feaster. 

Loudly through the wide-flung door 

Came the roar 
Of the sea upon the Skerry ; 
And its thunder loud and near 

Reached the ear, 
Mingling with their voices merry. 

" Hark ! " said Olaf to his Scald, 

Half red the Bald, 
''Listen to that song, and learn it ! 
Half my kingdom would I give, 

As I live, 
If by such songs you would earn it ! 

" For of all the runes and rhymes 

Of all times, 
Best I like the ocean's dirges, 
When the old harper heaves and rocks, 

His hoary locks 
Flowing and flashing in the surges ! " 

Half red answered : "I am called 

The Un appalled ! 
Nothing hinders me or daunts me. 
Hearken to me, then, O King, 

While I sing 
The great Ocean Song that haunts me." 

" I will hear your song sublime 

Some other time," 
Says the drowsy monarch, yawning, 
And retires ; each laughing guest 

Applauds the jest ; 
Then they sleep till day is dawning. 

Pacing up and down the yard, 

King Olaf's guard 
Saw the sea-mist slowly creeping 
O'er the sands, and up the hill, 

Gathering still 
Round the house where they were sleeping. 

It was not the fog he saw, 

Nor misty flaw, 
That above the landscape brooded ; 
It was Eyvind Kallda's crew 

Of warlocks blue 
With their caps of darkness hooded ! 

Round and round the house they go, 

Weaving slow 
Magic circles to encumber 
And imprison in their ring 

Olaf the King, 
As he helpless lies in slumber. 

Then athwart the vapors dun 
The Easter sun 

Streamed with one broad track of splendor ! 

In their real forms appeared 
The warlocks weird, 
Awful as the Witch of Endor. 

Blinded by the light that glared, 

They groped and stared 
Round about with steps unsteady ; 
From his window Olaf gazed, 

And, amazed, 
" Who are these strange people ? " said he. 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



193 



" Eyvind Kallda awl his men ! " 

Answered then 
From the yard a sturdy farmer ; 
While the men-at-arms apace 

Filled the place, 
Busily buckling on their armor. 

From the gates they sallied forth, 

South and north, 
Scoured the island coast around them, 
Seizing all the warlock band, 

Foot and hand 
On the Skerry's rocks they bound them. 

And at eve the King again 

Called his train. 
And, with all the candles burning, 
Silent sat and heard once more 

Tiie sullen roar 
Of the ocean tides returning. 

Shrieks and cries of wild despair 

Filled the air, 
Growing fainter as they listened ; 
Then the bursting surge alone 

Sounded on ; — 
Thus the sorcerers were christened ! 

" Sing, O Scald, your song sublime, 

Your ocean-rhyme," 
Cried King Olat : " It will cheer mc ! " 
Said the Ssald, with pallid cheeks, 

"The Skerry of Shrieks 
Sings too loud for you to hear me ! " 



VI. 

THE WRAITH OF ODIN. 

The guests were loud, the ale was strong, 
King Olaf feasted late and long ; 
The hoary Scalds together sang ; 
O'erhead the smoky rafters rang. 

Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

The door swung wide, with creak and din ; 
A blast of cold night-air came in, 
And on the threshold shivering stood 
A one-eyed guest, with cloak and hood. 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

The King exclaimed, u O graybeard pale ! 
Come warm thee with this cup of ale." 
The foaming draught the old man quaffed, 
The noisy guests looked on and laughed. 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

Then spake the King : "Be not afraid ; 
Sit here by me. 1 " Tne guest obeyed, 
And, seated at the table, told 
Tales of the sea, and Sagas old. 

Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

And ever, when the tale was o'er, 
The King demanded yet one more ; 
Till Sigurd the Bishop smiling said, 
" 'T is late, O King, and time for bed." 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

The King retired ; the stranger guest 
Followed and entered with the rest ; 
The lights were out, the pages gone, 
But still the garrulous guest spake on. 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

As one who from a volume reads, 
He spake of heroes and their deeds, 
Of lands and cities he had seen, 
And stormy gulfs that tossed between. 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 
13 



Then from his lips in music rolled 
The Havamal of Odin old, 
With sounds mysterious as the roar 
Of billows on a distant shore. 

Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

" Do we not learn from runes and rhymes 
Made by the gods in elder times, 
And do not still the great Scalds teach 
That silence better is than speech? " 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

Smiling at this, the King replied, 
'* Thy lore is by thy tongue belied ; 
For never was I so enthralled 
Either by Saga-man or Scald." 

Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

The Bishop said, ' ' Late hours we keep ! 
Night wanes, O King ! 't is time for sleep ! " 
Then slept the King, and when he woke 
The guest was gone, the morning broke. 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

They found the doors securely barred, 
They found the watch -dog in the yard, 
There was no footprint in the grass, 
And none had sesn the stranger pass. 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

King Olaf crossed himself and said : 
"I know that Odin the Great is dead ; 
Sure is the triumph of our Faith, 
The one-eyed stranger was his wraith." 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 



VII. 

IRON-BEARD. 

Olaf the King, one summer morn, 
Blew a blast on his bugle-horn, 
Sending hissignal through the land of Drontheim. 

And to the Hus-Ting held at Mere 
Gathered the farmers far and near. 
With their war weapons ready to confront him. 

Ploughing under the morning star, 
Old Iron-Beard in Yriar 
Heard the summons, chuckling with a low laugh. 

He. wiped the sweat-drops from his brow. 

Unharnessed his horses from the plough. 

And clattering came on horseback to King Olaf. 

He was the churliest of the churls ; 
Little he cared for king or earls ; 
Bitter as home-brewed ale\vere his foaming pas- 
sions. 

Hodden-gray was the garb he wore, 
And by the Hammer of Thor he swore ; 
He hated the narrow town, and all its fashions. 

But he loved the freedom of his farm, 

His ale at night, by the fireside warm, 

Gudrun his daughter, with her flaxen tiesses. 

He loved his horses and his herds, 
The smell of the earth, and the song of birds, 
His well-filled barns, his brook with its water- 
cresses. 

Huge and cumbersome was his frame ; 
His beard, from which he took his name. 
Frosty and fierce, like that of Hymer the Giant. 

So at the Hus Ting he appeared. 
The farmer of Yriar, Iron-Beard, 
On horseback, in an attitude defiant. 



194 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 




Olaf the King, one summer morn, blew a blast. 



And to King Olaf he cried aloud, 
Out of the middle of the crowd, 
That tossed about him like a stormy ocean : 

" Such sacrifices shalt thou bring ; 
To Odin and to Thor, O King, 
As other kings have done in their devotion ! 

King Olaf answered : " I command 
This land to be a Christian land ; 
Here is my Bishop who the folk baptizes ! 

u But if you ask me to restore 
Your sacrifices, stained with gore, 
Then will I offer human sacrifices ! 



" Not slaves and peasants shall they be, 
But men of note and high degree, 
Such men as Orm of Lyra and Kar of Gryting ! 



Then to their Temple strode he in, 
And loud behind him heard the din 
Of his men-at-arms and the peasants fiercely 
fighting. 

There in the Temple, carved in wood, 
The image of great Odin stood, 
And other gods, with Thor supreme among them. 

King Olaf smote them with the blade 
Of his huge war-axe, gold inlaid, 
And downward shattered to the pavement flung 
them. 

At the same moment rose without, 
From the contending crowd, a shout, 
A mingled sound of triumph and of wailing. 

And there upon the trampled plain 
The farmer Iron-Beard lay slain, 
Midway between the assailed and the assailing. 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



195 



King Olaf from the doorway spoke: 


' i Look ! " they said, 


" Choose ye I jet ween two things, my folk, 


With nodding head, 


To be baptized or given up to slaughter ! " 


"There goes Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest." 


And seeing their leader stark and dead, 


All the prayers he knew by rote, 


The people with a murmur said, 


He could preach like Chrysostome, 


" King, baptize us with thy holy water ; " 


From the Fathers he could quote, 




He had even been at Rome. 


So all the Drontheim land became 


A learned clerk, 


A Christian land in name and fame, 


A man of mark, 


In the old gods no more believing and trusting. 


Was this Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest. 


And as a blood-atonement, soon 


He was quarrelsome and loud, 


King Olaf wed the fair Gudrun ; 


And impatient of control. 


And thus in peace ended the Drontheim Hus- 


Boisterous in the market crowd, 


Ting ! 


Boisterous at the wassail-bowl, 




Everywhere 




Would drink and swear, 


VIII. 


Swaggering Thangbrand, Olaf s Priest. 


GUDRUN. 


In his house this malcontent 




Could the King no longer bear, 


On King Olaf 's bridal night 


So to Iceland he was sent 


Shines the moon with tender light, 


To convert the heathen there, 


And across the chamber streams 


And away 


Its tide of dreams. 


One summer day 




Sailed this Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest. 


At the fatal midnight hour, 




When all evil things have power, 


There in Iceland, o'er their books 


In the glimmer of the moon 


Pored the people day and night, 


Stands Gudrun. 


But he did not like their looks 




Nor the songs they used to write. 


Close against her heaving breast, 


"All this rhyme 


Something in her hand is pressed ; 


Is waste of time ! " 


Like an icicle, its sheen 


Grumbled Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest. 


Is cold and keen. 




. 


To the alehouse, where he sat, 


On the cairn are fixed her eyes 


Came the Scalds and Saga-men ; 


Where her murdered father lies, 


Is it to be wondered at, 


And a voice remote and drear 


That they quarrelled now and then, 


She seems to hear. 


When o'er his beer 
Began to leer 
Drunken Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest ? 


What a bridal night is this ! 


Cold will be the dagger's kiss ; 




Laden with the chill of death 


All the folk in Altafiord 


Is its breath. 


Boasted of their island grand ; 




Saying in a single word. 


Like the drifting snow she sweeps 


"Iceland is the finest land 


To the couch where Olaf sleops ; 


That the sun 


Suddenly he wakes and stirs 


Doth shine upon ! "' 


His eyes meet hers. 


Loud laughed Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest. 


"What is that," King Olaf said, 


And he answered : " What's the use 


"Gleams so bright above thy head? 
Wherefore standest thou so white 


Of this bragging up and down, 
When three women and one goose 


In pale moonlight V " 


Make a market in your town ! " 




Every Scald 


" 'T is the bodkin that I wear 


Satires scrawled 


When at night 1 bind my hair ; 
It woke me falling on the floor ; 


On poor Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest. 


'T is nothing more." 


Something worse they did than that ; 


" Forests have ears, and fields have eyes ; 
Often treachery lurking lies 
Underneath the fairest hair ! 
Gudrun beware ! " 


And what vexed him most of all 
Was a figure in shovel hat, 

Drawn in charcoal on the wall ; 
With words that go 




Sprawling below. 


Ere the earliest peep of morn 
Blew King Olaf's bugle-horn ; 


This is Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest." 




And forever sundered ride 


Hardly knowing what he did, 


Bridegroom and bride ! 


Then he smote them might and main, 




Thorvald Veile and Veterlid 




Lay there in the alehouse slain. 


IX. 


" To-day we are gold, 




To-morrow mould ! " 


THANGBRAND THE PRIEST. 


Muttered Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest. 


Short of stature, large of limb, 


Much in fear of axe and rope, 


Barley face and russet beard, 


Back to Norwav sailed he then. 


All the women stared at him, 


"O, King Olaf ! 'little hope 
Is there of these Iceland men ! " 


When in Iceland he appeared. 



196 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



Meekly said, 
With bending head, 
Pious Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest. 



RAUD THE STRONG. 

"All the old gods are dead, 

All the wild warlocks fled ; 

But the White Christ lives and reigns, 

And throughout my wide domains 

His Gospel shall be spread ! " 

On the Evangelists 

Thus swore King Olaf. 

But still in dreams of the night 
Beheld he the crimson light, 
And heard the voice that defied 
Him who was crucified, 
And challenged him to the fight. 

To Sigurd the Bishop 

King Olaf confessed it. 

And Sigurd the Bishop said, 
11 The old gods are not dead, 
For the great Thor still reigns, 
And among the Jarls and Thanes 
The old witchcraft still is spread." 

Thus to King Olaf 

Said Sigurd the Bishop. 

" Far north in the Salten Fiord, 

By rapine, fire, and sword, 

Lives the Viking, Baud the Strong ; 

All the Godoe Isles belong 

To him and his heathen horde." 

Thus went on speaking 

Sigurd the Bishop. 

" A warlock, a wizard is he, 

And lord of the wind and the sea ; 

And whichever way he sails, 

He has ever favoring gales, 

By his craft in sorcery. " 

Here the sign of the cross 
Made devoutly King Olaf. 

11 With rites that we both abhor, 
He worships Odin and Thor ; 
So it cannot yet be said, 
That all the old gods are dead, 
And the warlocks are no more," 

Flushing with anger 

Said Sigurd the Bishop. 

Then Kino; Olaf cried aloud : 
" I will talk with this mighty Raud, 
And along the Salten Fiord 
Preach the Gospel with my sword, 
Or be brought back in my shroud ! " 

So northward from Drontheim 

Sailed King Olaf ! 



XL 

BISHOP SIGURD AT SALTEN FIORD. 

Loud the angry wind was wailing 
As King Olaf's ships came sailing 
Northward out of Drontheim haven 
To the mouth of Salten Fiord. 

Though the flying sea-spray drenches 
Fore and aft the rowers 1 benches, 
Not a single heart is craven 

Of the champions there on board. 

All without the Fiord was quite, 
But within it storm and riot, 



Such as on his Viking cruises 

Raud the Strong was wont to ride. 

And the sea through all its tide-ways 
Swept the reeling vessels sideways, 
As the leaves are swept through sluices, 
When the flood-gates open wide. 

" 'T is the warlock ! 't is the demon 
Raud ! " cried Sigurd to the seamen ; 
"But the Lord is not affrighted 

By the witchcraft of his foes." 

To the ship's bow he ascended, 
By his choristers attended, 
Round him were the tapers lighted, 
• And the sacred incense rose. 

On the bow stood Bishop S ; gurd, 
In his robes, as cne transfigured, 
And the Crucifix he planted 

High amid the rain and mist. 

Then with holy water sprinkled 
All the ship ; the mass-bells tinkled ; 
Loud the monks around him chanted, . 
Loud he read the Evangelist. 

As into the Fiord they darted, 
On each side the water parted ; 
Down a path like silver molten 
Steadily rowed King Olaf's ships ; 

Steadily burned all night the tapers, 
And the White Christ through the vapors 
Gleamed across the Fiord of Salten, 

As through John's Apocalypse, — 

Till at last they reached Raud's dwelling 
On the little Isle of Gelling ; 
Not a guard was at the doorway, 

Not a glimmer of light was seen. 

But at anchor, carved and gilded, 

Lay the dragon-ship he builded ; 

'T was the grandest ship in Norway, 

With its crest and scales of green. 

Up the stairway, softly creeping, 
To the loft where Raud was sleeping, 
With their fists they burst asunder 

Bolt and bar that held the door. 

Drunken with sleep and ale they found him, 
Dragged him from his bed and bound him, 
While he stared with stupid wonder, 
At the look and garb they wore. 

Then King Olaf said : " O Sea-King ! 
Little time have we for speaking, 
Choose between the good and evil : 

Be baptized, or thou shalt die ! 

But in scorn the heathen scoffer 
Answered : "I disdain thine offer ; 
Neither fear I God nor Devil ; 

Thee and thy Gospel I defy ! " 

Then between his jaws distended, 
When his frantic struggles ended, 
Through King Olaf's horn an adder, 

Touched by fire, they forced to glide. 

Sharp his tooth was as an arrow, 

As he gnawed through bone and marrow ; 

But without a groan or shudder, 

Raud the Strong blaspheming died. 

Then baptized they all that region, 
Swarthy Lap and fair Norwegian, 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



197 



Far as swims the salmon, leaping, 

Up the streams of Salten Fiord. 

In their temples Thor and Odin 
Lay in dust and ashes trodden, 
As King Olaf, onward sweeping, 

Preached the Gospel with his sword. 

Then he took the carved and gilded 
Dragon-ship that Rand had budded, 
And the tiller single-handed, 

Grasping, steered into the main. 

Southward sailed the sea-galls o'er him, 
Southward sxiled the ship that bore him, 
Till at Drontheim haven landed 
Olaf and his crew again. 



XII. 

KING OLAF'S CHRISTMAS. 

At Drontheim, Olaf the King 
Heard the bells of Yule-tide ring, 

As he sat in his banquet-hall, 
Drinking the nut-brown ale, 
With his bearded Berserks hale 

And tall. 

Three days his Yule-tide feasts 
He held with Bishops and Priests, 

And his horn filled up to the brim ; 
But the ale was never too strong, 
Nor the Saga-man's tale too long, 

For him. 

O'er his drinking-horn, the sign 
He made of the cross divine, 

As he drank, and muttered his prayer: 
But the Berserks evermore 
Made the sign of the Hammer of Thor 

Over theirs. 

The gleams of the fire-light dance 
Upon helmet and haubt rk and lance, 

And laugh in the eyes of the King ; 
And he cries to Halfred the Scald, 
Gray-bearded, wrinkled, and bald, 

"Sing!" 

" Sing me a song divine, 
With a sword in every line, 

And this shall be thy reward." 
And he loosemd the belt at his waist, 
And in front of the singer placed 

His sword. 

" Quern-biter of Hakon the Good, 
Wherewith at a stroke he hewed 

The millstone through and through. 
And Foot-breadth of Thoralf the Strong, 
Were neither so broad nor so long, 

Nor so true." 

Then the Scald took his harp and sang, 
And loud through the music rang 

The sound of that shining word ; 
And the harp-strings a clangor made. 
As if thev were struck with the blade 

Of a sword. 

And the Berserks round about 
Broke forth in a shout 

That made the rafters ring : 
They smote with their fists on the board, 
And shouted, " Long live the sword, 

And the King ! " 

But the King said, " O my son, 
I miss the bright word in one 

Of thy measures and thy rhymes. " 



And Halfred the Scald replied, 
" In another 't was multiplied 
Three times." 

Then King Olaf raised the hilt 
Of iron, cross-shaped and gilt, 

And said, " Do not refuse ; 
Count well the gain and the loss, 
Thor's hammer or Christ's cross : 

Choose ! " 

And Halfred the Scald said, "This. 
In the name of the Lord I kiss. 

Who on it was crucified ! " 
And a shout went round the board, 
" In the name of Christ the Lord, 

Who died ! " 

Then over the waste of snows 
The noonday sun uprose, 

Through the driving mists revealed, 
Like the lift:ng of the Host, 
By incense-clouds almost 

Concealed. 

On the shining wall a vast 
And shadowy cross was cast 

From the hilt of the lifted sword, 
And in foaming cups of ale 
The Berserks drank u Was-hael ! 

To the Lord ! " 



XIII. 



THE BUILDING OF THE LONG SERPENT. 

THORBERG Skafting, master-builder, 

In his ship-yard by the sea, 
Whistling, said,'" It would bewilder 
Any man but Thorberg Skafting, 

Any man but me ! " 

Near him lay the Dragon stranded, 
Built of old by R md the strong, 

And King Olaf had commanded 

He should build another Dragon, 
Twice as large and long. 

Therefore whistled Thorberg Skafting, 
As he sat with half-closed eves, 

And his head turned sideways, drafting 

That new vessel for King Olaf 
Twice the Dragon's size. 



Round him busily hewed and hammered 

Mallet huge and heavy axe : 
Workmen laughed and sarg and clamored 
Whirred the wheels, that into rigging 
Spun the shining flax ! 

! All this tumult heard the master- 
It was music to his ear ; 
Fancy whispered all the faster, 
"Hen shall hear of Thorberg Skafting 
For a hundred 3"ear ! " 

Workmen sweating at the forges 
Fashioned iron bolt and bar, 
Like a warlocks midnight orgies 
Smoked and bubbled the black caldron 
With the boiling tar. 

Did the warlocks mingle in it, 

Thorberg Skafting, any curse ? 
Could you not be gone a minute 
But some mischief must be doing, 
Turning bad to worse ? 



198 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 


'T was an ill wind that came wafting, 


Near him Kolbiorn had his place, 


From his homestead words of woe ; 


Luke the King in garb and face, 


To his farm went Thorberg Skafting, 


So gallant and so hale ; 


Oft repeating to his workmen, 


Every cabin -boy and varlet, 


Build ye thus and so. 


Wondered at his cloak of scarlet ; 




Like a river, frozen and star -lit, 


After long delays returning 


Gleamed his coat of mail. 


Came the master back by night ; 




To his ship-yard longing, yearning, 


By the bulkhead, tall and dark, 


Hurried he, and did not leave it 


Stood Thrand Rame of Thelemark, 


Till the morning's light. 


A figure gaunt and grand ; 




On his hairy arm imprinted 


"Come and see my ship, my darling ! " 


Was an anchor, azure-tinted ; 


On the morrow said the King ; 


Like Thor's hammer, huge and dinted 


' i Finished now from keel to carlmg ; 


Was his brawny hand. 


Never yet was seen in Norway 




Such a wondrous thing ! " 


Einar Tamberskelver, bare 




To the winds his golden hair, 


In the ship-yard, idly talking, 


By the mainmast stood ; 


At the ship the workmen stared : 


Graceful was his form, and sleuder, 


Some one all their labor balking, 


And his eyes were deep and tender 


Down her sides had cut deep gashes, 


As a woman's, in the splendor 


Not a plank was spared ! 


Of her maidenhood. 


" Death be to the evil-doer ! " 


In the fore-hold Biorn and Bork 


With an oath King Olaf spoke ; 


Watched the sailors at their work : 


" But rewards to his pursuer ! " 


Heavens ! how they swore ! 


And with wrath his face grew redder 


Thirty men they each commanded, 


Than his scarlet cloak. 


Iron-sinewed, horny-handed, 




Shoulders broad, and chests expanded, 


Straight the master-builder, smiling, 


Tugging at the oar. 


Answered thus the angry King : 




" Cease blaspheming and reviling, 


These, and many more like these, 


Olaf, it was Thorberg Skafting 


With King Olaf sailed the seas, 


Who has done this thing ! " 


Till the waters vast 




Filled them with a vague devotion, 


Then he chipped and smoothed the planking, 


With the freedom and the motion, 


Till the King, delighted, swore, 


With the roll and roar of ocean 


With much lauding and much thanking, 


And the sounding blast. 


' ' Handsomer is now my Dragon 




Than she was before ! " 


When they landed from the fleet, 




How they roared through Drontheim's street, 


Seventy ells and four extended 

On the grass the vessel's keel ; 
High above it, gilt and splendid, 
Rose the figure-head ferocious 
With its crest of steel. 


Boisterous as the gale ! 
How they laughed and stamped and pounded, 
Till the tavern roof resounded, 
And the host looked on astounded 

As they drank the ale ! 




Never saw the wild North Sea 


Then they launched her from the tressels, 


Such a gallant company 


In the ship-yard by the sea ; 


Sail its billows blue ! 


She was the grandest of all vessels, 


Never, while they cruised and quarrelled, 


Never ship was built in Norway 


Old King Gorm, or Blue-Tooth Harald, 


Half so fine as she ! 


Owned a ship so well apparelled, 




Boasted such a crew ! 


The Long Serpent was she christened, 




'Mid the roar of cheer on cheer ! 


XV. 


They who to the Saga listened 




Heard the name of Thorberg Skafting 


A LITTLE BIRD IN THE AIR. 


For a hundred year ! 






A little bird in the air 




Is singing of Thyri the fair, 


XIV. 


The sister of Svend the Dane ; 




And the song of the garrulous bird 


THE CREW OF THE LONG SERPENT. 


In the streets of the town is heard, 




And repeated again and again. 


Safe at anchor in Drontheim bay 


Hoist up your sails of silk, 


King Olaf's fleet assembled lay, 


And flee away from each other. 


And, striped, with white and blue, 




Downward fluttered sail and banner, 


To King Burislaf, it is said, 


As alights and screaming lanner ; 


Was the beautiful Thyri wed, 


Lustily cheered, in their wild manner, 


And a sorrowful bride went she ; 


The Long Serpent's crew. 


And after a week and a day, 




She has fled away and away, 


Her forecastle man was Ulf the Red ; 


From his town by the stormy sea. 


Like a wolf's was his shaggy head, 


Hoist up your sails of silk, 


His teeth as large and white ; 


And flee away from each other. 


His beard, of gray and russet blended, 




Round as a swallow's nest descended ; 


They say, that through heat and through cold, 


As standard-bearer he defended 


Through weald, they say, and through wold, 


Olaf's flag in the fight. 


By day and by night, they say, 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



199 



She has fled ; and the gossips report 
She has come to King Olaf's court, 
And the town is all in dismay. 
Hoist up your sails of silk. 
And flee away from each other. 

It is whispered King Olaf has seen, 
Has talked with the beautiful queen ; 
And the}' wonder how it will end ; 


"Richer presents," said she, 
il Gave King Harald Gormson 
To the Queen, my mother, 
Than such worthless weeds ; 

11 When he ravaged Norway 
Laying waste the kingdom, 
Seizing scatt and treasure 
For her royal needs. 


For surely, if here she remain. 
It is war with King Svend the Dane, 
And King Burislaf the Vend ! 
Hoist up your sails of silk, 
And flee away from each other. 


; 'But thou darest not venture 
Through the Sound to Vendland, 
My domains to rescue 
From King Burislaf ; 


O, greatest wonder of all ! 

It is published in hamlet and hall, 

It roars like a flame that is fanned ! 
The King — yes, Olaf the King — 
Has wedded her with his ring, 
And Thyri is Queen in the land ! 
Hoist up your sails of silk, 
And flee away from each other. 


" Lest King Svend of Denmark, 
Forked Beard, my brother, 
Scatter all thy vessels 
As the wind the chaff." 

Then up sprang King Olaf, 
Like a reindeer bounding, 
W r ith an oath he answered 
Thus the luckless Queen : 


XVI. 

QUEEN THYRI AND THE ANGELICA STALKS. 


" Never yet did Olaf 
Fear King Svend of Denmark ; 
This right hand shall hale him 
By his forked chin ! " 


Northward over Drontheim 
Flew the clamorous sea-gulls, 
Sang the lark and linet 
From the meadows green ; 


Then he left the chamber, 
Thundering through the doorway, 
Loud his steps resounded 
Down the outer stair. 


Weeping in her chamber, 
Lonely and unhappy, 
Sat the Drottning Thyri, 
Sat King Olaf's Queen. 


Smarting with the insult, 
Through the streets of Drontheim 
Strode he red and wrathful, 
With his stately air. 


In at all the windows 
Streamed the pleasant sunshine, 
On the roof above her 
Softly cooed the dove ; 


All his ships he gathered, 
Summoned all his forces, 
Making his war levy 
In the region round ; 


But the sound she heard not, 
Nor the sunshine heeded, 
For the thoughts of Thyri 
Were not thoughts of love. 


Down the coast of Norway, 
Like a flock of sea-gulls, 
Sailed the fleet of Olaf 

Through the Danish Sound. 


Then King Olaf entered, 
Beautiful as morning, 
Like the sun at Easter 
Shone his happy face ; 


With his own hand fearless, 
Steered he the Long Ssrpent, 
Strained the creaking cordage, 
Bent each boom and gaff ; 


In his hand he carried 
Angelicas uprooted, 
With delicious fragrance 
Filling all the place. 


Till in Vendland landing, 
The domains of Thyri 
He redeemed and rescued 
From King Burislaf. 


Like a rainy midnight 
Sat the Drottning Thyri, 
Even the smile of Olaf 

Could not cheer her gloom ; 


Then said Olaf, laughing, 
" Not ten yoke of oxen 
Have the power to draw us 
Like a woman's hair ! 


Nor the stalks he gave her 
With a gracious gesture, 
And with words as pleasant 
As their own perfume. 


" Now will I confess it, 
Better things are jewels 
Than angelica stalks are 
For a Queen to wear." 


In her hands he placed them, 
And her jewelled fingers 
Through the green leaves glistened 
Like the dews of morn ; 


XVII. 

KING SVEND OF THE FORKED BEARD. 


But she cast them from her, 
Haughty and indignant, 
On the floor she threw them 
With a look of scorn. 


Loudly the sailors cheered 

Sveud of the Forked Beard, 

As with his fleet he steered 

Southward to Vendland ; 



200 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



Where with their courses hauled 
All were together called, 
Under the Isle of Svald 
Near to the mainland. 

After Quesn Gunhild's death, 
So the old Saga saith, 
Plighted King Svend Ids faith 

To Sigrid the Haughty ; 
And to avenge his bride, 
Soothing her wounded pride, 
Over the waters wide 

King Olaf sought he. 

Still on her scornful face, 
Blushing with deep disgrace, 
Bore she the crimson trace 

Of Olaf's gauntlet ; 
Like a malignant star, 
Blazing in heaven afar, 
Bed shone the angry scar 

Under her frontlet 



Oft to King Svend she spake, 
"For thine own honor's sake 
Shalt thou swift vengeance take 

On the vile coward ! " 
Until the King at last, 
Gusty and overcast, 
Like a tempestuous blast 

Threatened and lowered. 



Soon as the Spring appeared, 
Svend of the Forked Beard 
High his red standard reared, 

Eager for battle ; 
While every warlike Dane, 
Seizing his arms again, 
Left all unsown the grain, 

Unhoused the cattle. 



Likewise the Swedish King 
Summoned in haste a Thing, 
Weapons and men to bring 

In aid of Denmark ; 
Eric the Norseman, too, 
As the war tidings flew, 
Sailed with a chosen crew 

From Lapland and Finmark, 



So upon Easter day 

Sailed the three kings away, 

Out of the sheltered bay, 

In the bright season ; 
With them Earl Sigvald came, 
Eager for spoil and fame ; 
Pity that such a name 

Stooped to such treason ! 



Safe under Svald at last, 
Now were their anchors cast, 
Safe from the sea and blast, 

Plotted the three kings ; 
While, with a base intent, 
Southward Earl Sigvald went, 
On a foul errand bent, 

Unto the Sea-kings. 



Thence to hold on his course, 
Unto King Olaf's force, 
Lvirig within the hoarse 

Mouths of Stet-haven ; 
Him to ensnare a.nd bring, 
Unto the Danish king, 
Who his dead corse would fling 

Forth to the raven ! 



XVIII. 

KING OLAF AND EARL SIGVALD. 

On the gray sea-sands 
King Olaf stands, 
Northward and seaward 
He points with his hands. 

With eddy and whirl 
The sea-tides curl, 
Washing the sandals 
Of Sigvald the Earl. 

The mariners shout, 
The ships swing about, 
The yards are all hoisted, 
The sails nutter out. 

The war-horns are played, 
The anchors are weighed, 
Like moths in the distance 
The sails flit and fade. 

The sea is like lead, 
The harbor lies dead, 
As a corse on the sea-shore, 
Whose spirit has fled ! 

On that fatal day, 
The histories say, 
Seventy vessels 
Sailed out of the bay. 

But soon scattered wide 
O'er the billows thev ride, 
While Sigvald and Olaf 
Sail side by side. 

Cried the Earl : " Follow me ! 
I your pilot will be, 
For I know all the channels 
Where flows the deep sea ! " 

So into the strait 
Where his foes lie in wait, 
Gallant King Olaf 
Sails to his fate ! 

Then the sea- fog veils 
The ships and their sails ; 
Queen Sigrid the Haughty, 
Thy vengeance prevails ! 



XIX. 

KING OLAF'S WAR-HORNS. ' 

"Strike the sails ! " King Olaf said ; 
" Never shall men of mine take flight ; 
Never away from battle I fled, 
Never away from my foe ! 

Let God dispose 
Of my life in the fight ! " 

"Sound the horns ! " said Olaf the King ; 
And suddenly through the drifting brume 
The blare of the horns began to ring, 
Like the terrible trumpet shock 

Of Regnarock, 
On the day of Doom ! 

Louder and louder the war-horns sang 
Over the level floor of the flood ; 
All the sails came down with a clang, 
And there in the mist overhead 

The sun hung red 
As a drop of blood. 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



201 



Drifting down on the Danish fleet 
Three together tiie ships were lashed, 
So that neither should turn and retreat ; 
In the midst, but in front of the rest 

The burnished crest 
Of the Serpent flashed. 

King Olaf stood on the quarter-declc, 
With bow of ash and arrows of oak, 
His gilded shield was without a fleck, 
His helmet inlaid with gold, 

And in many a fold 
Hung his crimson cloak. 

On the forecastle Ulf the Red 
Watched the lashing of the ships ; 
" If the Serpent lie so far ahead, 
We shall have hard work of it here, 

Said he with a sneer 
On his bearded lips. 

King Olaf laid an arrow on string, 
" Have I a coward on board ? " said he. 
" Shoot it another way, O King ! " 
Sullenly answered Ulf, 

The old sea-wolf ; 
"You have need of me ! " 

In front came Svend, the King of the Danes, 
Sweeping down with his fifty rowers ; 
To the right, the Swedish king with his thanes ; 
And on board of the Iron Beard 

Earl Eric steered 
To the left with his oars. 

"These soft Danes and Swedes," said the King, 
" At home with their wives had better stay, 
Than come within reach of my Serpent's sting : 
But where Eric the Norseman leads 

Heroic deeds 
Will be done to-day ! " 

Then as together the vessels crashed, 
Eric severed the cables of hide, 
With which King Olaf's ships were lashed, 
And left them to drive and drift 

With the currents swift 
Of the outward tide. 

Louder the war-horns growl and snarl, 
Sharper the dragons bite and sting ! 
Eric the son of Hakon Jarl 
A death-drink salt as the sea 

Pledges to thee, 
Olaf the King ! 

XX. 

EINAR TAMBERSKELYER. 

It was Einar Tamberskelver 

Stood beside the mast ; 
From his yew-bow, tipped with silver, 

Flew the arrows fast ; 
Aimed at Eric unavailing, 

As he sat concealed, 
Half behind the quarter-railing, 

Half behind his shield. 

First an arrow struck the tiller, 

Just above his head ; 
u Sing, O Evvind Skaldaspiller," 

Then Earl Eric said. 
" Sing the song of Hakon dying, 

Sing his funeral wail ! " 
And another arrow flying 

Grazed his coat of mail. 

Turning to a Lapland yeoman, 

As the arrow passed. 
Said Earl Eric. " Shoot that bowman 

Standing by the mast." 



Sooner than the word was spoken 

Flew the yeoman's shaft ; 
Einar's bow in twain was broken, 

Einar only laughed. 

u What was that ? " said Olaf, standing 

On the quarter-deck. 
" Something heard I like the stranding 

Of a shattered wreck." 
Einar then, the arrow taking 

From the loosened string, 
Answered, " That was Norway breaking 

From thy hand, O King ! " 

" Thou art but a poor diviner," 

Straightway Olaf said ; 
"Take my bow, and swifter, Einar, 

Let thy shafts be sped. " 
Of his bows the fairest choosing, 

Reached he from above ; 
Einar saw the blood-drops oozing 

Through his iron glove. 

But the bow was thin and narrow ; 

At the first assay, 
O'er its head he drew the arrow, 

Flung the bow away ; 
Said, with hot and angry temper 

Flushing in his cheek, 
" Olaf ! for so great a Kamper 

Are thy bows too weak ! " 

Then, with smile of joy defiant 

On his beardless lip. 
Scaled he, light and self-reliant, 

Eric's dragon-ship. 
Loose his golden locks were flowing, 

Bright his armor gleamed ; 
Like Saint Michael overthrowing 

Lucifer he seemed. 



XXI. 

KING olaf's death-drink. 

All day has the battle raged. 
All day have the ships engaged, 
But not yet is assuaged 

The vengeance of Eric the Earl. 

The decks with blood are red, 
The arrows of death are sped. 
The ships are filled with the dead, 
And the spears the champions hurL 

They drift as wrecks on the tide, 
The grappling-irons are plied. 
The boarders climb up the side, 
The shouts are feeble and few. 

Ah ! never shall Norway again 
See her sailors come back o'er the main ; 
They all lie wounded or slain, 
Or asleep in the billows blue ! 

On the deck stands Olaf the King, 
Around him whistle and sing 
The spears that the foemen fling, 

And the stones they hurl with their hands. 

In the midst of the stones and the spears, 
Koibiorn, the marshal, appears, 
His shield in the air he uprears, 
By the side of King Olaf he stands. 

Over the slippery wreck 
Of the Long Serpent's deck 
Sweeps Eric with hardly a check, 
His lips with anger are pale ; 



202 



TALES OF A WAYSTDE INN. 




Alone in her chamber knelt Astrid the Abbess. 



He hews with his axe at the mast. 
Till it falls, with the sails overcast, 
Like a snow-covered pine in the vast 
Dim forests of Orkadale. 

Seeking King Olaf then, 
He rushes aft with his men, 
As a hunter into the den 
Of the bear, when he stands at bay. 

" Remember Jarl Hakon ! " he cries ; 
When lo ! on his wondering eyes, 
Two kingly figures arise, 

Two Olafs in warlike array ! 

Then Kolbiorn speaks in the ear 
Of King Olaf a word of cheer, 
In a whisper that none may hear, 
With a smile on his tremulous lip ; 

Two shields raised high in the air, 
Two flashes of golden hair, 
Two scarlet meteors' glare, 

And both have leaped from the ship. 

Earl Eric's men in the boats 
Seize Kolbiorn's shield as it floats, 
And cry, from their hairv throats, 
" See ! it is Olaf the King ! " 

While far on the opposite side 
Floats another shield on the tide, 
Like a jewel set in the wide 
Sea-current's eddying ring, 



There is told a wonderful tale, 
How the King stripped off his mail, 
Like leaves of the brown sea-kale, 
As he swam beneath the main ; 

But the young grew old and gray, 
And never, by night or by day, 
In his kingdom of Norroway 
Was King Olaf seen again ! 



XXII. 

THE NUN OF NIDAKOS. 

In the convent of Drontheim, 
Alone in her chamber 
Knelt Astrid the Abbess, 
At midnight, adoring, 
Beseeching, entreating 
The Virgin and Mother. 

She heard in the silence 
The voice oigme speaking, 
Without in the darkness, 
In gusts of the night-wind 
Now louder, now nearer, 
Now lost in the distance. 

The voice of a stranger 
It seemed as she listened, 
Of some one who answered, 
Beseeching, imploring, 
A cry from afar off 
She could not distinguish. 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 203 


The voice of Saint John, 


I hear the prayer, with words that scorch 


The beloved disciple, 


Like sparks from an inverted torch, 


Who wandered and waited 


I hear the sermon upon sin, 


The Master's appearance. 


With threatenings of the last account. 


Alone in the darkness, 


And all, translated in the air, 


Unsheltered and friendless. 


Reach me but as our dear Lord's Prayer, 




And as the Sermon on the Mount. 


" It is accepted 




The angry defiance, 


" Must it be Calvin, and not Christ ? 


The challenge of battle ! 


Must it be Athanasian creeds 


It is accepted, 


Or holy water, books, and beads ? 


But not with the weapons 


Must struggling souls remain content 


Of war that thou wieldest ! 


With councils and decrees of Trent ? 




And can it be enough for these 


"Cross against corselet, 


The Christian Church the year embalms 


Love against hatred, 


With evergreens and boughs of palms, 


Peace-cry for war-cry ! 


And fills the air with litanies ? 


Patience is powerful ; 




He that o'ercometh 


" I know that yonder Pharisee 


Hath power o'er the nations ! 


Thanks God that he is not like me ; 




In my humiliation dressed, 


"As torrents in summer, 


I only stand and beat my breast, 


Half dried in their channels, 


And pray for human charity. 


Suddenly rise, though the 




Sky is still cloudless. 


" Not to one church alone, but seven, 


For rain has been falling 


The voice prophetic spake from heaven ; 


Far off at their fountains ; 


And unto each the promise came, 




Diversified, but still the same ; 


" So hearts that are fainting 


For him that overcometh are 


Grow full to o'erflowing, 


The new name written on the stone, 


And they that behold it 


The raiment white, the crown, the throne, 


Marvel, and know not 


And I will give him the Morning Star ! 


That God at their fountains 




Far off has been raining ! 


" Ah ! to how many Faith has been 




No evidence of things unseen, 


" Stronger than steel 


But a dim shadow, that recasts 


Is the sword of the Spirit ; 


The creed of the Phantasiasts, 


Swifter than arrows 


For whom no Man of Sorrows died, 


The light of the truth is, 


For whom the Tragedy Divine 


Greater than anger 
Is love, and subdueth ! 


Was hut a symbol and a sign, 


And Christ a phantom crucified ! 


•' Thou art a phantom, 


" For others a diviner creed 


A shape of the sea-mist, 


Is living in the life they lead. 


A shape of the brumal 


The passing of their beautiful feet 


Pain, and the darkness 


Blesses the pavement of the street, 


Fearful and formless ; 


And all their looks and words repeat 


Day dawns and thou art not ! 


Old Fuller's saying, wise and sweet, 
Not as a vulture, but a dove. 




" The dawn is not distant, 


The Holy Ghost came from above. 


Nor is the night starless ; 




Love is eternal ! 


" And this brings back to me a tale 


God is still God, and 


So sad the hearer well may quail, 


His faith shall not fail us ; 


And question if such things can be ; 


Christ is eternal ! " 


Yet in the chronicles of Spain 




Down the dark pages runs this stain, 




And naught can wash them white again, 




So fearful is the tragedy.'' 


INTERLUDE. 




A strain of music closed the tale, 




A low, monotonous, funeral wail, 


THE THEOLOGIAN'S TALE. 


That with its cadence, wild and sweet, 




Made the long Saga more complete. 


TORQUEMAD.Y. 


"Thank God," the Theologian said, 


In the heroic days when Ferdinand 


1 ' The reign of violence is dead. 


And Isabella ruled the Spanish land, 


Or dying surely from tha^world. ; 
While love triumphant reigns instead, 


And Torquemada, with his subtle brain, 


Ruled them, as Grand Inquisitor of Spain, 


And in a brighter sky o'erhead 


In a great castle near Valladolid, 


His blessed banners are unfurled. 


Moated and high and by fair woodlands hid. 


And most of all thank God for this : 


There dwelt, as from the chronicles we learn, 


The war and waste of clashing creeds 


An old Hidalgo proud and taciturn, 


Now end in words, and not in deeds, 


Whose name has perished, with his towers of 


And no one suffers loss, or bleeds, 


stone, 


For thoughts that men call heresies. 


A.nd all his actions save this one alone ; 




This one, so terrible, perhaps 't were best 


" I stand without here in the porch, 


If it, too, were forgotten with the rest ; 


1 hear the bell's melodious din, 


Unless, perchance, our eyes can see therein 


I hear the organ peal within, 


The martyrdom triumphant o'er the sin ; 



204 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



A double picture, with its gloom and glow, 
The splendor overhead, the death below. 

This sombre man counted each day as lost 
On which his feet no sacred threshold crossed ; 
And when he chanced the passing Host to meet, 
He knelt and prayed devoutly in the street ; 
Oft he confessed ; and with each mutinous 

thought, 
As with wild beasts at Ephesus, he fought. 
In deep contrition scourged himself in Lent, 
Walked in processions, with his head down bent, 
At plays of Corpus Christi oft was seen, 
And on Palm Sunday bore his bough of green. 
His sole diversion was to hunt the boar 
Through tangled thickets of the forest hoar, 
Or with his jingling mules to hurry down 
To some grand bull-fight in the neighboring town, 
Or in the crowd with lighted taper stand, 
When Jews were burned, or banished from the 

land. 
Then stirred within him a tumultuous joy 
The demon whose delight is to destroy 
Shook him, and shouted with a trumpet tone, 
Kill ! kill ! and let the Lord find out his own ! " 



And now, in that old castle in the wood, 
His daughters, in the dawn of womanhood, 
Returning from their convent school, had made 
Resplendent with their bloom the forest shade, 
Reminding him of their dead mother's face, 
When first she came into that gloomy place, — 
A memory in his heart as dim and sweet 
As moonlight in a solitary street, 
Where the same rays, that lift the sea, are thrown 
Lovely but powerless upon walls of stone. 
These two fair daughters of a mother dead 
Were all the dream had left him as it fled. 
A joy at first, and then a growing care, 
As if a voice within him cried, "Beware ! " 
A vague presentiment of impending doom, 
Like ghostly footsteps in a vacant room, 
Haunted him day and night ; a formless fear 
That death to some one of his house was near, 
With dark surmises of a hidden crime, 
Made life itself a death before its time. 
Jealous, suspicious, with no sense of shame, 
A spy upon his daughters he became ; 
With velvet slippers, noiseless on the floors, 
He glided softly through half-open doors ; 
Now in the room, and now upon the stair, 
He stood beside them ere they were aware ; 
He listened in the passage when they talked, 
He watched them from the casement when they 

walked, 
He saw the gypsy haunt the river's side, 
He saw the monk among the cork-trees glide ; 
And, tortured by the mystery and the doubt 
Of some dark secret, past his finding out, 
Baffled he paused ; then reassured again 
Pursued the flying phantom of his brain. 
He watched them even when they knelt in church ; 
And then, descending lower in his search, 
Questioned the servants, and with eager eyes 
Listened incredulous to their replies ; 
The gypsy ? none had seen her in the wood ! 
The monk ? a mendicant in search of food ! 

At length the awful revelation came, 
Crushing at once his pride of birth and name, 
The hopes his yearning bosom forward cast, 
And the ancestral glories of the past ; 
All fell together, crumbling in disgrace, 
A turret rent from battlement to base. 
His daughters talking in the dead of night 
In their own chamber, and without a light, 
Listening, as he was wont, he overheard, 
And learned the dreadful secret, word by word ; 
And hurrying from his castle, with a cry 
He raised his hands to the unpitying sky, 



Repeating one dread word, till bush and tree 
Caught it, and shuddering answered, " Heresy ! ** 

Wrapped in his cloak, his hat drawn o 'er his face, 
Now hurrying forward, now with lingering pace, 
He walked all night the alleys of his pai k, 
With one unseen companion in the daik, 
The Demon who within him lay in wait, 
And by his presence turned his love to hate, 
Forever muttering in an undertone, 
"Kill ! kill ! and let the Lord find out his own ! " 

Upon the morrow, after early Mass, 
While yet the dew was glistening on the grass, 
And all the woods were musical with birds, 
The old Hidalgo, uttering fearful words, 
Walked homeward with the Priest, and in his 

room 
Summoned his trembling daughters to their doom. 
When questioned, with brief answers they replied, 
Nor when accused evaded or denied ; 
Expostidations, passionate appeals, 
All that the human heart most fears or feels, 
In vain the Priest with earnest voice essayed, 
In vain the father threatened, wept, and prayed ; 
Until at last he said, with haughty mien, 
" The Holy Office, then, must intervene ! " 
And now the Grand Inquisitor of Spain, 
With all the fifty horsemen of his train, 
His awful name resounding, like the blast 
Of funeral trumpets, as he onward passed, 
Came to Valladolid, and there began 
To harry the rich Jews with fire and ban. 
To him the Hidalgo went, and at the gate 
Demanded audience on affairs of state, 
And in a secret chamber stood before 
A venerable graybeard of fourscore, 
Dressed in the hood and habit of a friar ; 
Out of his eyes flashed a consuming fire, 
And in his hand the mystic horn he held, 
Which poison and all noxious charms dispelled. 
I He heard in silence the Hidalgo's tale, 
Then answered in a voice that made him quail ; 
" Son of the Church ! when Abraham of old 
To sacrifice his only son was told, 
He did not pause to parley nor protest, 
But hastened to obey the Lord's behest. 
Tn him it was accounted righteousness ; 
The Holy Church expects of thee no less ! " 

A sacred frenzy seized the father's brain, 
And Mercy from that hour implored in vain. 
Ah ! who will e'er believe the words I say V 
His daughters he accused, and the same day 
Thev both were cast into the dungeon's gloom, 
That dismal antechamber of the tomb, 
Arraigned, condemned, and sentenced to the flame, 
The secret torture and the public shame. 

Then to the Grand Inquisitor once more 
The Hidalgo went, more eager than before, 
And said: u When Abraham offered up his son, 
He clave the wood wherewith it might be done. 
By his example taught, let me too bring 
Wood from the forest for my offering ! " 
And the deep voice, without a pause, replied : 
"Son of the Church ! by faith now justified, 
Complete thy sacrifice, even as thou wilt ; 
The Church absolves thy conscience from all 
guilt ! " 

Then this most wretched father went his way 
Into the woods, that round his castle lay, 
Where once his daughters in their childhood 

played 
With their young mother in the sun and shade. 
Now all the leaves had fallen ; the branches bare 
Made a perpetual moaning in the air, 
And screaming from their eyries overhead 
The ravens sailed athwart the sky of lead. 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



203 



With his own hands he lopped the boughs and 

bound 
Fagots, that crackled with foreboding sound, 
And on his mules, caparisoned and gay 
With bells and tassels, sent them on their way. 

Then with his mind on one dark purpose bent, 
Again to the Inquisitor he went, 
And said : "Behold, the fagots I have brought, 
And now, lest my atonement be as naught, 
Grant me one more request, one last desire, — 
With my own hand to iigh: the funeral fire ! " 
And Torquemada answered from his seat, 
"Son of the Church! Thine offering is com- 
plete ; 
Her servants through all ages shall not cease 
To magnify thy deed. Depart in peace ! " 

Upon the market-place, buiHed of stone 

The scaffold rose, whereon Death claimed his own. 

At the four corners, in stern attitude, 

Four statues of the Hebrew Prophets stood, 

Gazing with calm indifference in their eyes 

Upon this place of human sacrifice, 

Round which was gathering fast the eager crowd, 

With clamor of voices dissonant and loud, 

And every roof and window was alive 

With restless gazers, swarming like a hive. 

The church bells tolled, the chant of monks drew 

near, 
Loud trumpets stammered forth their notes of 

fear, 
A line of torches smoked along the street, 
There was a stir, a rush, a tramp of feet, 
And, with its banners floating in the air, 
Slowly the long procession crossed the square, 
And, to the stat les of the Prophets bound, 
The victims stood, with fagots piled around. 
Then all the air a blast of trumpets shook. 
And louder sang th? monks with bell and book, 
And the Hidalgo, lofty, stern, and proud, 
Lifted his torch, and, bursting through the crowd, 
Lighted in haste the fagots, and then fled, 
Lest those imploring eyes should strike him dead ! 

O pitiless skies ! why did your clouds retain 
For peasants' fields their floods of hoarded rain ? 
O pitiless earth ! why open no abyss 
To bury in its chasm a crime like this ? 

That night, a mingled column of fire and smoke 
From the dark thickets of the forest broke, 
And, glaring o'er the landscape leagues away, 
Made all the fields and hamlets bright as day. 
Wrapped in a sheet of flame the castle blazed, 
And as the villagers in terror gazed, 
They saw the fig ire of that cruel knight 
Lean from a window in the turret's height, 
His ghastly face illumined with the glare, 
His hands upraised above his head in prayer, 
Tdl the floor sank beneath him, and he fell 
Down the black hollow of that burning well. 

Three centuries and more above his bone- 
Have piled the oblivious years like funeral stones ; 
His name has perished with him. and no trace 
Remains on earth of his afflicted race ; 
But Torquemada's name, with clouds o'ercast, 
Looms in the distant landscape of the Past, 
Like a burnt tower upon a blackened heath, 
Lit by the fires of burning woods beneath ! 



The Jew was thoughtful and distressed ; 
Upon h.s memory thronged and pressed 
The persecution of his race, 
Their wrongs, and suffer. ngs and disgrace ; 
His head was sunk upon h.s breast, 
And from his eyes altjin^te came 
Flashes of wrath and tears of shame. 

The student first the silence broke, 

As one who long has lain in wait, 

With purpose to retaliate, 

And thus he dealt the avenging stroke. 

"In such a company as this, 

A tale so tragic seems amiss, 

That by its terrible control 

Overmasters and drags down the soul 

Into a fathomless abyss. 

The Italian Tales that you disdain, 

Some merry Night of Straparole, 

Or Machiavelli s Belphagor, 

Would cheer us and delight us more, 

Give greater pleasure and less pain 

Than your grim tragedies of Spam ! " 

And here the Poet raised his hand, 
With such entreaty and command, 
It stopper! discussion at its birth, 
And said : "Toe story I shad tell 
Has meaning in it, if not mirth ; 
Listen, and hear what once befell 
The merry birds of Kdlingworth ! " 



INTERLUDE. 

Thus closed the tale of guilt and gloom, 
That cast upon each listener's face 
Its shadow, and for some brief space 
Unbroken silence filled the room. 



THE POET'S TALE. 

THE BIKDS OF KILLINGWORTn. 

It was the season, when through all the land 
The merle and mavis build, and building sing 

Those lovely lyrics, written by His hand, 

AVhom Saxon Caedmon calls the Blitheheart 
King ; 

When on the boughs the purple buds expand, 
The banners of the vanguard of the Spring, 

And rivulets, rejoicing, rush and leap, 

Aud wave tueir fluttering signals from the steep. 

The robin and the bluebird, piping loud. 

Filled all the blossoming orchards with their 
glee ; 

The sparrows chirped as if thev still were proud 
Th ir race in Holy writ should mentioned be ; 

And hungry crows assembled in a crowd. 
Clamored their piteous prayer incessantlv, 

Knowing who hears the ravens cry, and said ; 

11 Give us, O Lord, this day our daily bread ! " 

Across the Sound th a birds of passage sailed, 
Speaking some unknown language strange and 
sweet 

Of tropic isle remote, and passing hade 1 

The village with the cheers of all their fleet ; 

Or quarrelling together, laughed and railed 
Like foreign sailors, landed in the street 

Of seaport town, and with outlandish noise 

Of oaths and gibberish frightening girls and boys. 

Thus came the jocund Spring in Killingworth, 
In fabulous days, some hundred years ago ; 

And thrifty farmers, as they tilled the earth, 
Heard with alarm the cawing of the crow, 

That mingled with the universal mirth, 
Cassandra-like, prognosticating woe ; 

They shook their heads, aud doomed with dread- 
ful words 

To swift destruction the wdiole race of birds. 

And a town-meeting was convened straightway 
To set a price upon the guilty heads 

Of these marauders, wdio, in lieu of pay, 
Levied black-mail upon the garden beds 



206 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



And cornfields, and beheld without dismay 

The awful scarecrow, with his Muttering 
shreds ; 
The skeleton that waited at their feast, 
Whereby their sinful pleasure was increased. 

Then from his house, a temple painted white, 
With fluted columns, and a roof of red, 

The Squire came forth, august and splendid 
sight ! 
Slowly descending, with majestic tread, 

Three flights of steps, nor looking left nor right, 
Down the long street he walked, as one who 
said, 

" A town that boasts inhabitants like me 

Can have no lack of good society ! " 

The Parson, too, appeared, a man austere, 
The instinct of whose nature was to kill ; 

The wrath of God he preached from year to year, 
And read, with fervor, Edwards on the Will ; 

His favorite pastime was to slay the deer 
In Summer on some Adirondac hill ; 

E'en now, while walking down the rural lane, 

He lopped the wayside lilies with his cane. 

From the Academy, whose belfry crowned 
The hill of Science with its vane of brass, 

Came the Preceptor, gazing idly round, 
Now at the clouds, and now at the green grass, 

And all absorbed in reveries profound 
Of fair Almira in the upper class, 

Who was, as in a sonnet he had said. 

As pure as water, and as good as bread. 

And next the Deacon issued from his door, 
In his voluminous neck-cloth, white as snow ; 

A suit of sable bombazine he wore ; 

His form was ponderous, and his step was slow ; 

There never was so wise a man before ; 

He seemed the incarnate " Well I told you 
so!" 

And to perpetuate his great renown 

There was a street named after him in town. 

These came together in the new town-hall, 
With sundry farmers from the region round. 

The Squire presided, dignified and tall, 

His air impressive and his reasoning sound ; 

111 fared it with the birds, both great and small ; 
Hardly a friend in all that crowd they found, 

But enemies enough, who every one 

Charged them with all the crimes beneath the sun. 

When they had ended, from his place apart, 
Rose the Preceptor, to redress the wrong, 

And, trembling like a steed before the start, 
Looked round bewildered on the expectant 
throng ; 

Then thought of fair Almira, and took heart 
To speak out what was in him, clear and strong, 

Alike regardless of their smile or frown, 

And quite determined not to be laughed down. 

' ' Plato, anticipating the Reviewers, 

From his Republic banished without pity 

The Poets ; in this little town of j'ours. 
You put to death, by means of a Committee, 

The ballad-singers and the Troubadours, 
The street-musicians of the heavenly city, 

The birds, who make sweet music for us all 

In our dark hours, as David did for Saul. 

" The thrush that carols at the dawn of day 
From the green steeples of the piny wood ; 

The oriole in the elm ; the noisy jay, 
Jargoning like a foreigner at his food ; 

The bluebird balanced on some topmost spray 
Flooding with melody the neighborhood ; 

Linnet and meadow-lark, and all the throng 

That dwell in nests, and have the gift of song. 



" You slay them all ! and wherefore ? for the gain 
Of a scant handful more or less of wheat, 

Or rye, or barley, or some other grain, 

Scratched up at random by industrious feet, 

Searching for worm or weevil after rain ! 
Or a few cherries, that are not so sweet 

As are the songs these uninvited guests 

Sing at their feast with comfortable breasts. 

' ' Do you ne'er think what wondrous beings these ? 

Do you ne'er think who made them, and who 
taught 
The dialect they speak, where melodies 

Alone are the interpreters of thought ? 
Whose household words are songs in many keys, 

Sweeter than instrument of man e'er caught ! 
Whose habitations in the tree-tops even 
Are half-way houses on the road to heaven ! 

" Think, every morning when the sun peeps 
through 

The dim, leaf-latticed windows of the grove, 
How jubilant the happy birds renew 

Their old, melodious madrigals of love ! 
And when you think of this, remember too 

'T is always morning somewhere, and above 
The awakening continents, from shore to shore, 
Somewhere the birds are singing evermore. 

' ' Think of your woods and orchards without birds! 

Of empty nests that cling to boughs and beams 
As in an idiot's brain remembered words 

Hang empty 'mid the cobwebs of his dreams ! 
Will bleat of flocks or bellowing of herds 

Make up for the lost music, when your teams 
Drag home the stingy harvest, and no more 
The feathered gleaners follow to your door ? 

' ' What ! would you rather see the incessant stir 
Of insects in the windrows of the hay, 

And hear the locust and the grasshopper 
Their melancholy hurdy-gurdies play ? 

Is this more pleasant to you than the whir 
Of meadow-lark, and her sweet roundelay, 

Or twitter of little field-fares, as you take 

Your nooning in the shade of bush and brake ? 

" You call them thieves and pillagers ; but know, 
They are the winged wardens of your farms, 

Who from the cornfields drive the insidious foe, 
And from your harvests keep a hundred harms; 

Even the blackest of them all, the crow. 
Renders good service as your man-at-arms, 

Crushing the beetle in his coat of mail, 

And crying havoc on the slug and snail. 

" How can I teach your children gentleness, 
And mercy to the weak, and reverence 

For Life, which, in its weakness or excess, 
Is still a gleam of God's omnipotence, 

Or Death, which, seeming darkness, is no less 
The selfsame light, although averted hence, 

When by your laws, your actions, and your 
speech, 

You contradict the very things I teach ? " 

With this he closed ; and through the audience 
went 

A murmur like the rustle of dead leaves ; 
The farmers laughed and nodded, and some bent 

Their yellow heads together like their sheaves ; 
Men have no faith in fine-spun sentiment 

Who put their trust in bullocks and in beeves. 
The birds were doomed ; and, as the record shows, 
A bounty offered for the heads of crows. 

There was another audience out of reach : 
Who had no voice nor vote in making laws, 

But in the papers read his little speech. 

Arid crowned his modest temples with ap- 
plause ; 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



207 



They made him conscious, each one more than 
each, 
He still was victor, vanquished in their cause. 
Sweetest of ail the applause he won from thee, 
O fair Almira at the Academy ! 

And so the dreadful massacre began ; 

O'er fields and orchards, and o'er woodland 
crests, 
The ceaseless fusillade of terror ran. 

Dead fell the birds, with blood-stains on their 
breasts, 
Or wounded crept away from sight of man, 

While the young died of famine in their nests; 
A slaughter to be told in groans, not words, 
The very St. Bartholomew of Birds ! 

The Summer came, and all the birds were dead ; 

The days were like hot coals ; the very ground 
Was burned to ashes ; in the orchards fed 

Myriads of caterpillars, and around 
The cultivated fields and garden beds 

Hosts of devouring insects crawled, and found 
No foe to check their march, till they had made 
The land a desert without leaf or shade. 

Devoured by worms, like Herod, was the town, 
Because, like Herod, it hath ruthlessly 

Slaughtered the Innocents. From the trees spun 
down 
Thecanker-worms upon the passers by, 

Upon each woman's bonnet, shawl, and gown, 
Who shook them off with just a little cry; 

They were the terror of each favorite walk, 

The endless theme of all the village talk. 

The farmers grew impatient, but a few, 

Confessed their error, and would not complain, 

For after all. the best thing one can do 
When it is raining, is to let it rain. 

Then they repealed the law, although they knew 
It would not call the dead to life again ; 

As schoolboys, finding their mistake too late, 

Draw a wet sponge across the accusing slate. 

That year in Killingworth the Autumn came 
"Without the light of his majestic look, 

The wonder of the falling tongues of flame, 
The illumined pages of his Doom's-Day book. 

A few lost leaves blushed crimson with their shame, 
And drowned themselves despairing in the 
brook. 

While the wild wind went moaning everywhere, 

Lamenting the dead children of the air ! 



But the next Spring a stranger sight was seen, 
A sight that never yet by bard was sung, 

As great a wonder as it would have been 
If some dumb animal had found a tongue ! 

A wagon, overarched with evergreen, 

Upon whose boughs were wicker cages hung, 

All full of singing birds, came down tne street, 

Filling the air with music wild and sweet. 

From all the country round these birds were 
brought, 

By order of the town, with anxious quest, 
And, loosened from their wicker prisons, sought 

In woods and fields the places they loved be.^t, 
Singing loud canticles, which many thought 

Were satires to the authorities addressed, 
While others, listening in green lanes, averred 
Such lovely music never had been heard ! 

But blither still and louder carolled they 
Upon the morrow, for they seemed to know 

It was the fair Almira's wedding-day, 
And everywhere, around, above, below, 

When the Preceptor bore his bride away. 
Their songs burst forth in joyous overflow, 

And a new heaven bent over a new earth 

Amid the sunny farms of Killingworth. 



FIXALE. 

TnE hour was late ; the fire bunied low, 
The Landlord's eyes were closed in sleep, 
And near the story's end a deep 
Sonorous sound at times was heard. 
As when the distant bagpipes blow. 
At this all laughed ; the Landlord stirred, 
As one awaking from a swound, 
And, gazing anxiously around, 
Protested that he had not slept, 
But only shut his eyes, and kept, 
His ears attentive to each word. 

Then all arose, and said ''Good Xight." 
| Alone remained the drowsy Squire 
j To rake the embers of the fire, 
j And quench the waning parlor light , 
While from the windows, here and there. 
The scattered lamps a moment gleamed, 
And the illumined hostel seemed 
The constellation of the Bear, 
Downward, athwart the misty air, 
Sinking and setting toward the sun. 
j Far off the village clock struck one. 



PART SECOND, 



PRELUDE. 

A COLD, uninterrupted rain, 

That washed each southern window-pane, 

And made a river of the road ; 

A sea of mist that overflowed 

The house, the barns, the gilded vane. 

And drowned the upland and the plain, 

Through which the oak-trees, broad and hi< 

Like phantom ships went drifting by : 

And, hidden behind a watery screen, 

The sun unseen, or only seen 

As a faint pallor in the sky ;— 

Thus cold and colorless and gray, 

The morn of that autumnal day, 

As if reluctant to begin, 

Dawned on the silent Sudbury Inn, 

And all the guests that in it lay. 



Full late they slept. They did not hear 
The challenge of Sir Chanticleer, 
Who on the empty threshing-floor, 
Disdainful of the rain outside. 
Was strutting with a martial stride, 
As if upon his thigh he wore 
The famous broadsword of the Squire, 
And said, k * Behold me, and admire ! " 

Only the Poet seemed to hear. 
In drowse or dream, more near and near 
Across the border-land of sleep 
The blowing of a blithesome ho^a. 
That laughed the dismal day to scorn ; 
A splash of hoofs and rush of wheels 
Through sand and mire like stranding keels, 
As from the road with sudden sweep 
The Mail drove up the little steep, 



208 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



And stopped beside the tavern door ; 
A moment stopped, and then again 
With crack of whip and bark of dog 
Plunged forward through the sea of fog, 
And all was silent as before,— 
All silent save the dripping rain. 

Then one by one the guests came down, 
And greeted with a smile the Squire, 
Who sat before the parlor fire, 
Heading the paper fresh from town. 
First, the Sicilian, like a bird, 
Before his form appeared, was heard 
Whistling and singing down the stair ; 
Then came the Student, with a look 
As placid as a meadow-brook ; 
The Theologian, still perplexed 
With thoughts of this world and the next ; 
The Poet then, as one who seems 
Walking in visions and in dreams ; 
Then the Musician, like a fair 
Hyperion from whose golden hair 
The radiance of the morning streams ; 
And last the aromatic Jew 
Of Alicant, who, as he threw 
The door wide open, on the air 
Breathed round about him a perfume 
Of damask roses in full bloom, 
Making a garden of the room. 

The breakfast ended, each pursued 
The promptings of his various mood ; 
Beside the fire in silence smoked 
The taciturn, impassive Jew, 
Lost in a pleasant revery ; 
While, by his gravity provoked, 
His portrait the Sicilian drew, 
And wrote beneath it " Bdrehi, 
At the Bed Horse in Sudbury." 

By far the busiest of them all, 

The Theologian in the hall 

Was feeding robins in a cage, — 

Two corpulent and lazy birds, 

Vagrants and pilferers at best, 

If one might trust the hostler's words, 

Chief instrument of their arrest ; 

Two poets of the Golden Age, 

Heirs of a boundless heritage 

Of fields and orchards, east and west, 

And sunshine of long summer days, 

Though outlawed now and dispossessed ! — ■ 

Such was the Theologian's phrase. 

Meanwhile the Student held discourse 

With the Musician, on the source 

Of all the legendary lore 

Among the nations, scattered wide 

Like silt and seaweed by the force 

And fluctuation of the tide ; 

The tale repeated o'er and o'er, 

With change of place and change of name, 

Disguised, transformed, and yet the same 

We 've heard a hundred times before. 

The Poet at the window mused, 

And saw, as in a dream confused, 

The countenance of the Sun, discrowned, 

And haggard with a pale despair, 

And saw the cloud-rack trail and drift 

Before it, and the trees uplift 

Their leafless branches, and the air 

Filled with the arrows of the rain, 

And heard amid the mist below, 

Like voices of distress and pain, 

That haunt the thoughts of men insane, 

The fateful cawings of the crow. 

Then down the road, with mud besprent, 
And drenched with rain from head to hoof, 
The rain-drops dripping from his mane 



And tail as from a pent-house roof, 
A jaded horse, his head down bent, 
Passed slowly, limping as he went. 

The young Sicilian — who had grown 
Impatient longer to abide 
A prisoner - , greatly mortified 
To see completely overthrown 
His plans for angling in the brook, 
And, leaning o'er the bridge of stone, 
To wa.tch the speckled trout glide by, 
And float through the inverted sky, 
Still round and round the baited hook — ■ 
Now paced the room with rapid stride, 
And, pausing at the Poet's side, 
Looked forth, and saw the wretched steed, 
And said : ll Alas for human greed, 
That with cold hand and stony eye 
Thus turns an old friend out to die, 
Or beg his food from gate to gate ! 
This brings a tale into my mind, 
Which, if you are not disinclined 
To listen, I will now relate." 

All gave assent ; all wished to hear, 
Not without many a jest and jeer, 
The story of a spavined steed ; 
And even the Student with the rest 
Put in his pleasant little jest 
Out of Malherbe, that Pegasus 
Is but a horse that with all speed 
Bears poets to the hospital ; 
While the Sicilian, self-possessed, 
After a moment's interval 
Began his simple story thus. 



THE SICILIAN'S TALE. 

THE BELL OF ATRI. 

At Atri in Abruzzo, a small town 

Of ancient Roman date, but scant renown, 

One of those little places that have run 

Half up the hill, beneath a blazing sun, 

And then sat down to rest, as if to say, 

11 1 climb no faither upward, come what may," — - 

The Be Giovanni, now unknown to fame, 

So many monarchs since have borne the name, 

Had a great bell hung in the market-place 

Beneath a roof, projecting some small space, 

By way of shelter from the sun and rain. 

Then rode he through the streets with all his 

train, 
And, with the blast of trumpets loud and long, 
Made proclamation, that whenever wrong 
Was done to any man, he should but ring 
The great bell in the square, and he, the King, 
Would cause the Syndic to decide thereon. 
Such was the proclamation of King John. 

How swift the happy days in Atri sped, 
What wrongs were righted, need not here be said. 
Suffice it that, as all things must decay, 
The hempen rope at length was worn away, 
Unravelled at the end, and, strand by strand, 
Loosened and wasted in the ringer's hand, 
Till one, who noted this in passing by, 
Mended the rope with braids of hriony, 
So that the leaves and tendrils of the vine 
Hung like a votive garland at a shrine. 

By chance it happened that in Atri dwelt 
A knight, with spur on heel and sword in belt, 
Who loved to hunt the wild-boar in the woods, 
Who loved his falcons with their crimson hoods, 
Who loved his hounds and horses, and all sports 
And prodigalities of camps and courts ;— 
Loved, or had loved them ; for at last, grown old, 
His only passion was the love of gold. 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



209 



He sold his horses, sold his hawks and hounds, 
Rent -d his vineyards and his gar len-grounds, 
Kept but one steed, his favorite steed of all, 
To starve and shiver in a naked stall, 
And day by day sat brooding in his chair, 
Devising plans how best to hoard and spare. 

At length he said : " What is the use or need 

To keep at my own cost this lazy steed, 

Eating his head off in my stables here, 

When rents are low and provender is dear ? 

Let him go fesd upon the public ways ; 

I want him only for the holidays." 

So the old steel was turned into the heat 

Of the long, lonely, silent, shadeless street ; 

And wandered in suburban lanes forlorn, 

Barked at by dogs, and torn by brier and thorn. 

One afternoon, as in that snltry clime 
It is the custom in the summer time, 
With bolted doors and window -shutters closed, 
Tin; inhabitants of Atri slept or dozed ; 
When suddenly upon their senses fell 
The loud alarum of the accusing bell ! 
The Syndic started from his deep repose, 
Turned on his couch, and listened, and then rose 
And donned his robes, and with reluctant pace 
Went panting forth into the market-place. 
Where the great bell upon its er>ss-beam swung 
Reiterating with persistent tongue. 
In half-articulate jargon, the old song : 
14 Some one hath done a wrong, hath done a 
wrong ! " 

But ere he reached the belfry's light arcade 
He saw. or thought he saw, beneath its shade, 
No shape of human form of woman born, 
But a poor steed dejected and forlorn. 
Who with uplifted head and eager eye 
Was tugging at the vines of briony. 
" Domeneddio ! " cried the Syndic straight, 
" This is the Knight of Atri's steed of state ! 
He calls for justice, being sore distressed, 
And pleads his cause as loudly as the best."' 

Meanwhile from street and lane a noisy crowd 

Had rolled together like a summer cloud, 

And told the story of the wretched beast 

In five-and-twenty different ways at least, 

With much gesticulation and appeal 

To heathen gods, in their excessive zeal. 

The Knight was called and questioned ; in reply 

Did not confess the fact, did not deny ; 

Treated the matter as a pleasant jest, 

And set at naught the Syndic and the rest, 

Maintaining, in an angry undertone, 

That he should do what pleased him with his own. 



And thereupon the Syndic gravely read 
The proclamation of the King ; then said : 
"Pride goeth forth on horseback grand and gay, 
But cometh back on foot, and begs its way ; 
Fame is the fragrance of heroic deeds, 
Of flowers of chivalry and not of weeds ! 
These are familiar proverbs ; but I fear 
They never yet have reached your knightly ear. 
What fair renown, what honor, what repute 
Can come to you from starving this poor brute ? 
He who serves well and speaks not, merits more 
Than they who clamor loudest at the door. 
Therefore the law decrees that as this steed 
Served you in youth, henceforth you shall take 

heed 
To comfort his old age, and to provide 
Shelter in stall, and food and field beside. 

The Knight withdrew abashed ; the people all 

Le I home the steed in triumph to his stall. 

The King heard and approved, and laughed in 

glee, 
And cried aloud : "Right well it pleaseth me ! 

14 



Church-bells at best but ring us to th e door ; 
But go not in to mass ; my bell doth more : 
It cometh into court and pleads the cause 
Of creatures dumb and unknown to the laws; 
And this si all make, in every Christian clime, 
The Bell of Atri famous for all time." 



INTERLUDE. 

"Yes, well your story pleads the cause 

Of those dumb mouths that have no speech, 

Only a cry from each to each 

In its own kind, with its own laws ; 

Something that is beyond the reach 

Of human power to lean or teach, — 

An inarticulate moan of pain, 

Like the immeasurable main 

Breaking upon an unknown beach." 

Thus spake the Poet with a sigh ; 
Then added, with impassioned cry, 
As one who feels the words he speaks, 
The color flushing in his cheeks, 
The fervor burning in his eye : 
" Among the noblest in the land, 
Though he may count himself the least, 
That man I honor and i 
Who without favor, without fear. 
In the great city dares to stand 
The friend of every friendless bei-t, 
And tames with his unflinching hand 
The brutes that wear our form and face, 
The were-wolves of the hunurh ra 
Then paused, and waited with a frown, 
Like some old champion of romance. 
Who, having thrown his gauntlet down, 
Expectant leans upon his lance ; 
But neither Knight nor Squire is found 
To raise the gauntlet from the ground, 
And try with him the battle's chance. 

"Wake from your dreams, O Edrehi ! 

Or dreaming speak to us, and make 

A feint of being half awake. 

And tell us what your dreams may be, 

Out of the hazy atmosphere 

Of clo.id-land deign to reappear 

Among us in this Wayside Inn ; 

Tell us what visions and what scenes 

Illuminate the dark ravines 

In which you grope your way. Begin ! n 

Thus the Sicilian spake. The Jew 
Made no reply, but only smiled, 
As men unto a wayward child, 
Not knowing what to answer, do. 
As from a cavern's mouth, o'ergrown 
With moss and intertangled vines, 
A streamlet leaps into the light 
And murmurs over root and stone 
In a melodious undertone ; 
Or as amid the noonday night 
Of sombre and wind-haunted pines, 
There runs a sound as of the sea ; 
So from his bearded lips there came 
A melody without a name, 
A song, a tale, a history. 
Or whatsoever it may lie. 
Writ and recorded in these lines. 



THE SPANISH JEWS TALK 

KAMBALU. 

Into the city of Kambalu, 

By the road that leadeth to Ispahan, 

At the head of his dusty caravan, 



210 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



Laden with treasure from realms afar, 
Baldacci and Kelat and Kandahar, 
Rode the great captain Alau. 

The Khan from his palace-window gazed, 
And saw in the thronging street beneath, 
In the light of the setting sun, that blazed 
Through the clouds of dust by the caravan raised, 
The flash of harness and jewelled sheath, 
And the shining scymitars of the guard, 
And the weary camels that bared their teeth, 
As they passed and passed through the gates un- 
barred 
Into the shade of the palace-yard. 

Thus into the city of Kambalu 

Rode the great captain Alau ; 

And he stood before the Khan, and said : 

" The enemies of my lord are dead ; 

All the Kalifs of all the West 

Bow and obey thy least behest ; 

The plains are dark with the mulberry -trees, 

T.ie weavers are busy in Samireand, 

The miners are sifting the golden sand, 

The divers plunging for pearls in the seas, 

And peace and plenty are in the land. 

" Baldacca's Kalif, and he alone, 

Rose in revolt against thy throne : 

His treasures are a,t thy palace-door, 

With the swords and the shawls and the jewels 

he wore ; 
His body is dust o'er the desert blown. 

" A mile outside of Baldacca's gat3 t 

I left my forces to lie in wait, 

Concealed by forests and hillocks of sand, 

And forward dashed with a handful of men, 

To lure the old tiger from his den 

Into the ambush I had planned. 

Ere we reached the town the alarm was spread, 

For we heard the sound of gongs from within ; 

And with clash of cymbals and warlike din 

The gates swung wide ; and we turned and fled ; 

And the garrison sallied forth and pursued, 

With the gray old Kalif at their head, 

And above them the banner of Mohammed : 

So we snared them all, and the town was subdued. 

" As in at the gate we rode, behold, 

A tower that is called the Tower of Gold ! 

For there the Kalif had hidden his wealth, 

Heaped and hoarded and piled on high, 

Like sacks of wheat in a granary ; 

And thither the miser crept by stealth 

To feel of the gold that gave him health, 

And to gaze and gloat with his hungry eye 

On jewels that gleamed like a glow-worm's spark, 

Or the eyes of a panther in the dark. 

" I said to the Kalif : ' Thou art old, 

Thou hast no need of so much gold. 

Thou should 'st nob have heaped and hidden it here, j 

Till the breath of battle was hot and near, 

But have sown through the land these useless ! 

hoards 
To spring into shining blades of swords, 
And keep thine honor sweet and clear. 
These grains of gold are not grains of wheat ; 
These bars of silver thou canst not eat ; 
These jewels and pearls and precious stones 
Cannot cure the aches in thy bones, 
Nor keep the feet of Death one hour 
From climbing the stairways of thy tower ! ' 

1 ' Then into his dungeon I locked the drone, 
And left him to feed there all alone 
In the honey-cells of his golden hive : 
Never a prayer, nor a cry, nor a groan 
Was heard from those massive walls of stone, 
Nor again was the Kalif seen alive ! 



" When at last we unlocked the door, 

I We found him dead upon the floor ; 
The rings had dropped from his withered hands, 
His teeth were like bones in the deseit sands : 

| Still clutching his treasure he had died ; 

! And as he lay there, he appeared 

j A statue of gold with a silver beard, 

1 His arms outstretched as if crucified." 

j This is the story, strarge and true, 
j That the great captain Alau 
i Told to his brother the Tartar Khan, 
When he rode that day into Kambalu 
By the road that leadeth to Ispahan. 



INTERLUDE. 

" I thought before your tale began," 
The Student murmured, "we should have 
Some legend written by Judah Rav 
In his Gemara of Babylon ; 
Or something from the Gulistan, — 
The tale of the Cazy of Hamadan, 
Or of that King of Khorasan 
Who saw in dreams the eyes of one 
That had a hundred years been dead 
Still moving restless in h:'s head, 
Undimmed, and gleaming with the lust 
Of power, though all the rest was dusfc. 

" But lo ! your glittering caravan 
On the road that leadeth to Ispahan 
Hath led ns farther to the East 
Into the regions of Cathay. 
Spite of your Kalif and his gold. 
Pleasant has been the tale you told, 
And full of color ; that at least 
No one will question or gainsay. 
And yet on such a dismal day 
We need a merrier tale to clear 
The dark and heavy atmosphere. 
So listen, Lordlings, while I tell. 
Without a preface, what befell 
A simple cobbler, in the year — 
No matter ; it was long ago ; 
And that is all we need to know." 



THE STUDENT'S TALE. 

THE COBBLER OF HAGENAU. 

I TRUST that somewhere and somehow 
You all have heard of Hagenau, 
A quiet, quaint, and ancient town 
Among the green Alsatian hills, 
A place of valleys, streams, and mills, 
Where Barbarossa's castle, brown 
With rust of centuries, still looks down 
On the broad, drowsy land below, — 
On shadowy forests filled with game, 
And the blue river winding slow 
Through meadows, where the hedges grow 
That give this little town its name. 

It happened in the good old times, 
Wliile yet the Master-singers filled 
The noisy workshop and the guild 
With various melodies and rhymes, 
That here in Hagenau there dwelt 
A cobbler, — one who loved debate, 
And, arguing from a postulate, 
Would say what others only felt ; 
A man of forecast and of thrift, 
And of a shrewd and careful mind 
In this world's business, but inclined 
Somewhat to let the next world drift. 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



211 



Hans Sachs with vast delight he read, 

And Regenbogen's rhymes of love, 

For their poetic fame had spread 

Even to the town of Hagenau ; 

And some Quick Melody of the Plough, 

Or Double Harmony of the Dove, 

Was always running in his head. 

He kept, moreover, at his side, 

Among his leathers and his tools, 

Reynard the Fox, the Ship of Fouls, 

Or Eulenspiegel, open wide ; 

With these he was much edified : 

He thought them wiser than the Schools. 

His good wife, full of godly fear, 
Liked not these worldly themes to hear ; 
The Psalter was her book of songs ; 
The only music to her ear 
Was that which to the Church belongs, 
When the loud choir on Sunday chanted, 
And the two angels carved in wood, 
That by the windy organ stood, 
Blew on their trumpets loud and clear, 
And all the echoes, far and near, 
Gibbered as if the church were haunted. 
Outside his door, one afternoon, 
This humble votary of the muse 
Sat in the narrow strip of shade 
By a projecting cornice made, 
Mending the Burgomaster's shoes, 
And singing a familiar tune : 

" Our ingress into the world 

Was naked and bare ; 
Our progress through the world 

Is trouble and care ; 
Our egress from the world 

Will be nobody knows where 
But if we do well here 

We shall do well there ; 
And I could tell you no more, 

Should I preach a whole year ! " 

Thus sang the cobbler at his work ; 

And with his gestures marked the time 

Closing together with a jerk 

Of his waxed thread the stitch and rhyme. 

Meanwhile his quiet little dame 

W r as leaning o'er the window-sill, 

Eager, excited, but mouse-still, 

Gazing impatiently to see 

What the great throng of folk might be 

That onward in procession came, 

Along the unfrequented street, 

W T ith horns that blew, and drums that beat, 

And banners flying and the flame 

Of tapers, and, at times, the sweet 

Voices of nuns ; and as they sang 

Suddenly all the church-bells rang. 

In a gay coach, above the crowd, 
There sat a monk in ample hood, 
Who with his right hand held aloft 
A red and ponderous cross of wood. 
To which at times he meekly bowed. 
In front three horsemen rode, and oft, 
With voice and air importunate, 
A boisterous herald cried aloud : 
lw The grace of God is at your gate ! " 
So onward to the church they passed. 

The cobbler slowly turned his last, 
And, wagging his sagacious head, 
Unto his kneeling housewife said : 
" 'T is the monk Tetzel. I have heard 
The cawings of that reverend bird. 
Don't let him cheat you of your gold ; 
Indulgence is not bought and sold." 

The church of Hagenan, that night, 
Was full of people, full of light ; 



An odor of incense filled the air. 

The priest intoned, the organ groaned 

Its inarticulate despair ; 

The candles on the altar blazed, 

And full in front of it upraised 

The red cross stood against the glare. 

Below, upon the altar-rail 

Indulgences were set to sale, 

Like ballads at a country fair. 

A heavy strong-box, iron-bound 

And carved with many a quaint device, 

Received, with a melodious sound, 

The coin that purchased Paradise. 



Then from the pulpit overhead, 
Tetzel the monk, with fiery glow, 
Thundered upon the crowd below. 
4 l Good people all. draw near ! " he said ; 
" Purchase these letters, signed and sealed, 
By which all sins, though unrepealed 
And unrepented, are forgiven ! 
Count but the gain, count not the loss ! 
Your gold and silver are but dross, 
And yet they pave the way to heaven. 
I hear your mothers and your sires 
Cry from their purgatorial fires. 
And will ye not their ransom pay ? 

senseless people ! when the gate 
Of heaven is open, will yon wait ? 
Will ye not enter in to-day ? 
To-morrow it will be too late ; 

1 shall be gone upon my way. 

Make haste ! bring money while ye may '. " 



The women shuddered, and turned pale ; 

Allured by hope or driven by fear, 

With many a sob an 1 many a tear, 

All crowded to the altar-rail. 

Pieces of silver and of gold 

Into the tinkling strong-box fell 

Like pebbles dropped into a well : 

And soon the ballads were all sold. 

The cobbler's wife among the rest 

Slipped into the capacious chest 

A golden florin ; then withdrew. 

Hiding the paper in her breast ; 

And homeward through the darkness went 

Comforted, quieted, content ; 

She did not walk, she rather flew. 

A dove that settles to her nest, 

When some appalling bird of prey 

That scared her has been driven away. 



The days went by, the monk was gone, 

The summer passed, the winter came ; 

Though seasons changed, yet still the same 

The daily round of life went on ; 

The daily round of house holdcare, 

The narrow life of toil and prayer. 

But in her heart the cobbbr's dame 

Had now a treasuse beyond price, 

A secret joy without a name, 

The certainty of Paradise. 

Alas, alas ! Dust unto dust ! 

Before the winter wore away. 

Her body in the churchyard lay. 

Her patient soul was with the Just ! 

After her death, among things 

That even the poor preserve with care, — 

Some little trinkets and cheap rings, 

A locket with her mother's hair, 

Her wedding gown, the faded flowers 

She wore upon her wedding day, — 

Among these memories of past hours, 

That so much of the heart reveal, 

Carefully kept and put away, 

The Letter of Indulgence lay 

Folded, with signature and seal. 



212 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



Meanwhile the Priest, aggrieved and pained, 

Waited and wondered that no word 

Of mass or requiem he heard, 

As by the Holy Church ordained : 

Then to the Magistrate complained, 

That as this woman had been dead 

A week or more, and no mass said, 

Jt was rank heresy, or at least 

Contempt of Church ; thus said the Priest ; 

And straight the cobbler was arraigned. 

He came, confiding in his cause, 

But rather doubtful of the laws. 

The Justice from his elbow-chair 

Gave him a look that seemed to say : 

11 Thou standest before a Magistrate, 

Therefore do not prevaricate ! " 

Then asked him in a business way, 

Kindly but cold r "Is thy wife dead ? " 

The cobbler meekly bowed his head ; 

" She is," came struggling from his throat 

Scarce audibly. The Justice wrote 

The words down in a book, and then 

Continued, as he raised his pen : 

'' She is ; and hath a mass been said 

For the salvation of her soul ? 

Come, speak the truth ! confess the whole ! " 

The cobbler without pause replied : 

41 Of mass or prayer there was no need ; 

For at the moment when she died 

Her soul was with the glorified 1 " 

And from his pocket with all speed 

He drew the priestly title-deed, 

And prayed the Justice he would read. 

The Justice read, amused, amazed ; 
And as he read his mirth increased ; 
At times his shaggy brows he raised, 
Now wondering at the cobbler gazed, 
Now archfully at the angry Priest. 
" From all excesses, sins, and crimes 
Thou hast committed in past times 
Thee I absolve ! And futhermore, 
Purified from all earthly taints, 
To the communion of the Saints 
And to the sacraments restore ! 
All stains of weakness, and all trace 
Of shame and censure I efface ; 
Remit the pains thou shouldst endure, 
And make thee innocent and pure, 
So that in dying, unto thee 
The gates of heaven shall open be ! 
Though long thou livest, yet this grace 
Until the moment of thy death 
Unchangeable continueth ! " 

Then said he to the Priest : c 1 1 find 
This document is duly signed 
Brother John Tetzel, his own hand. 
At all tribunals in the land 
In evidence it may be used ; 
Therefore acquitted is the accused." 
Then to the cobbler turned : ' k My friend, 
Pray tell me, didst thou ever read 
Reynard the Fox ? " — " O yes, indeed ! " — 
'' I thought so. Don't forget the end." 



INTERLUDE. 

" WriAT was the end V I am ashamed 
Not to remember Reynard's fate ; 
I have not read the book of late ; 
Was he not hanged ? " the Poet said. 
The Student gravely shook his head, 
And answered : " You exaggerate. 
There was a tournament proclaimed, 
And Reynard fought with Isegrim 
The Wolf, and having vanquished him, 
Rose to high honor in the State, 
And Keeper of the Seals was named ! " 



At this the gay Sicilian laughed : 
"Fight fire with fire, and craft with craft 
Successful cunning seems to be 
The moral of your tale," said he. 
"Mine had a better, and the Jew's 
Had none at all, that I could see ; 
His aim was only to amuse." 

Meanwhile from out its ebon case 

His violin the Minstrel drew, 

And having tuned its strings anew, 

Now held it close in his embrace, 

And poising in his outstretched hand 

The bow, like a magician's wand, 

He paused, and said, with beaming face : 

" Last night my story was too long ; 

To-day I give you but a song. 

An old tradition of the North ; 

But first, to put you in the mood, 

I will a little while prelude, 

And from this instrument draw forth 

Something by way of overture." 

He played ; at first the tones were pure 
And tender as a summer night, 
The fiiH moon climbing to her height, 
The sob and ripple of the seas, 
The flapping of an idle sail ; 
And then by sudden and sharp degrees 
The multiplied, wild harmonies 
Freshened and burst into a gale ; 
j A tempest howling through the dark, 
A crash as of some shipwrecked bark, 
A loud and melancholy wail. 

Such was the prelude to the tale 
Told by the Minstrel ; and at times 
He paused amid its varying rhymes, 
And at each pause again broke in 
The music of his violin, 
W T ith tones of sweetness or of fear, 
Movements of trouble or of calm, 
Creating their own atmosphere ; 
As sitting in a church we hear 
Between the verses of the psalm 
The organ playing soft and clear, 
Or thundering on the startled ear. 



THE MUSICIAN'S TALE. 



THE BALLAD OF CAKMILHAN. 



At Stralsund, by the Baltic Sea, 

Within the sandy bar. 
At sunset of a summer's day, 
Ready for sea, at anchor lay 

The good ship Valdemar. 

The subeams danced upon the waves, 

And played along her side ; 
And through the cabin windows streamed 
In ripples of golden light, that seemed 

The ripple of the tide. 

There sat the captain with his friends, 

Old skippers brown and hale, 
Who smoked and grumbled o'er their grog, 
And talked of iceberg and of fog, 

Of calm and storm and gale. 

And one was spinning a sailor's yarn 

About Klaboterman, 
The Kobold of the sea ; a spright 
Invisible to mortal sight, 

Who o'er the rigging ran. 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



213 



Sometimes he hammered in the hold. 

Sometimes upon the mast, 
Sometimes abeam, sometimes ahaft, 
Or at the bows lie sang and laughed, 

And made all tight and fast. 

He helped the sailors at their work, 

And toiled with jovial din ; 
He helped them hoist and reef the sails, 
He helped them stow the casks and bales, 

And heave the anchor in. 

But woe unto the lazy louts, 

The idlers of the crew ; 
Them to torment was his delight. 
And worry them by day and night, 

And pinch them black and blue. 

And woe to him whose mortal eyes 

Klaboterman behold. 
It is a certain sign of death ! — 
The cabin-boy here held his breath, 

He felt his blood run cold. 



The jolly skipper paused awhile, 

And then again began ; 
lk Tnere is a Spectre Ship," quoth he, 
"A ship of the Dead that sads the saa, 

And is called the Carmilhan. 

"A ghostly ship, with a ghostly crew, 

In tempest she appears ; 
And before the gale, or against 4he gale, 
She sails without a rag or sail. 

Without a helmsman steers. 

"She haunts the Atlantic north and south, 

But mostly the mid-sea, 
Where three great rocks rise bleak and bare 
Like furnace-chimneys in the air. 

And are called the Chimneys Three. 

" All ill betide the luckless ship 

That meets the Carmilhan ; 
Over her decks the seas will leap, 
She must go down into the deep, 

And perish mouse and man." 

The captain of the Valdemar 

Laughed loud with merry heart. 
41 1 should like to see this ship," said he ; 
41 1 should like to find these Chimneys Three, 

That are marked down in the chart. 

" I have sailed right over the spot," he said, 

k< With a good stiff breeze behind, 
When the sea was blue, and the sky was clear, — 
You can follow my course by these piuholes 
here, — 

And never a rock could find. " 

And then he swore a dreadful oath, 

He swore by the Kingdoms Three, 
That, should he meet the Carmilhan, 
He would run her down, although he ran 

Right into Eternity ! 

All this, while passing to and fro, 

The cabin-boy had heard ; 
He lingered at the door to hear, 
And drank in all with greedy ear, 

And pondered every word. 

He was a simple country lad, 

But of a roving mind. 
" O, it must be like heaven," thought he, 
" Those far-off foreign lands to see, 

And fortune seek and find ! " 



But in the fo'castle, when he heard 

The mariners blaspheme, 
He thought of home, he thought of God, 
And his mother under the church) ard sod, 

And wished it were a dream. 

One friend on board that ship had he ; 

'T was the Klaboterman, 
Who saw the Bible in his chest, 
And made a sign upon his breast, 

All evil things to ban. 



The cabin windows have grown blank 

As eyeballs of the dead ; 
No more the glancing sunbeams burn 
On the gilt letters of the stern, 

But on the figure-head ; 

On Valdemar Victorious, 

Who looketh with disdain 
To see his image in the tide 
Dismembered float from side to side, 

And reunite again. 

" It is the wind," tho?e skippers said, 

" That swings the vessel so , 
It is the wind ; it freshens fast, 
'.T is time to say farewell at last, 
'T is time for us to go.' 1 

They shook the captain by the hand, 

" Good luck ! good luck ! " they cried; 
Each face was like the setting sun, 
As. broad and red, they one by one 
Went o'er the vessel's side. 

The sun went down, the full moon rose, 

Serene o'er field and flood ; 
And all the winding creeks and bays 
And broad sea-meadows seemed ablaze, 

The sky was red as blood. 

The southwest wind blew fresh and fair, 

As fair as wind could be ; 
Bound for Odessa, o'er the bar, 
With all sail set the Valdemar 

Went proudly out to sea. 

The lovely moon climbs up the sky 

As one who walks in dreams ; 
A tower of marble in her light, 
A wall of black, a wall of white, 
The stately vessel seems. 

Low down upon the sandy coast 

The lights begin to burn ; 
And now, uplifted high in air, 
They kindle with a fiercer glare, 

And now drop far astern. 

The dawn appears, the land is gone, 

The sea is all around ; 
Then on each hand low hills of sand 
Emerge and form another land ; 

She steereth through the Sound. 

Through Kattegat and Skager-rack 

She flitteth like a ghost ; 
By day and night, by night and day, 
She bounds, she flies upon her way 

Along the English coast. 

Cape Finisterre is drawing near, 

Cape Finisterre is past ; 
Into the open ocean stream 
She floats, the vision of a dream 

Too beautiful to last. 



214 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 


Suns rise and set, and rise, and yet 


And onward dashed the Valdemar 


There is no land in sight ; 


And leaped into the dark ; 


The liquid planets overhead 


A denser mist, a colder blast, 


Burn brighter now the moon is dead, 


A little shudder, and she had passed 


And longer stays the night. 


Right through the Phantom Bark. 




She cleft in twain the shadowy hulk, 


IV. 


But cleft it unaware ; 




As when, careering to her nest, 


And now along the horizon's edge 


The sea-gull severs with her breast 


Mountains of cloud uprose. 


The unresisting air. 


Black as with forests underneath, 




Above their sharp and jagged teeth 


Again the lightning flashed ; again 


Were white as drifted snows. 


They saw the Carmilhan, 




Whole as before in hull and spar ; 


Unseen behind them sank the sun, 


But now on board of the Valdemar 


But flushed each snowy peak 


Stood the Klaboterman. 


A little while with rosy light 




That faded slowly from tne sight 


And they all knew their doom was sealed ; 


As blushes from the cheek. 


They knew that death was near; 




Some prayed who never prayed before, 


Black grew the sky, — all black, all black; 


And some they wept, and some they swore, 


The clouds were everywhere ; 


And some were mute with fear. 


There was a feeling of suspense 




In nature, a mysterious sense 


Then suddenly there came a shock, 


Of terror in the air. 


And louder than wind or sea 




A cry burst from the crew on deck, 


And all on board the Valdemar 


As she dashed and crnshed, a hopeless wreck, 


Was still as still could be ; 


Upon the Chimneys Three. 


Save when the dismal ship-bell tolled, 




As ever and anon she rolled, 


The storm and night were passed, the light 


And lurched into the sea. 


To streak the east began ; 




The cabin-boy, picked up at sea, 


The captain up and down the deck 


Survived the wreck, and only he, 


Went striding to and fro : 


To tell of the Carmilhan. 


Now watched the compass at the wheel, 




Now lifted up his hand to feel 
Which way the wind might blow. 








INTERLUDE. 


And now he looked up at the sails, 




And now upon the deep ; 


When the long murmur of applause 


In every fibre of his frame 


That greeted the Musician's lay 


He felt the storm before it came, 


Had slowly buzzed itself away, 


He had no thought of sleep. 


And the long talk of Spectre Ships 




That followed died upon their lips 


Eight bells ! and suddenly abaft, 
With a great rush of rain, 


And came unto a natural pause, 


" These tales you tell are one and all 


Making the ocean white with spume, 


Of the Old World," the Poet said, 


In darkness like the day of doom, 


" Flowers gathered from a crumbling wall, 


On came the hurricane. 


Dead leaves that rustle as they fall ; 




Let me present you in their stead 


The lightning flashed from cloud to cloud, 


Something of our New England earth, 


And rent the sky in two ; 


A tale which, though of no great worth, 


A jagged flame, a single jet 


Has still this merit, that it yields 


Of white fire, like a bayonet, 


A certain freshness of the fields, 


That pierced the eyeballs through- 


A sweetness as of home-made bread." 


Then all around was dark again, 
And blacker than before ; 


The Student answered : "Be discreet ; 


For if the flour be fresh and sound, 


But in that single flash of light 


And if the bread be light and sweet, 


He had beheld a fearful sight, 


Who careth in what mill 't was ground, 


And thought of the oath he swore. 


Or of what oven felt the heat, 




Unless, as old Cervantes said, 


For right ahead lay the Ship of the Dead, 

The ghostly Carmilhan ! 
Her masts were stripped, her yards were bare, 
And on her bowsprit, poised in air, 

Sat the Klaboterman. 


You are looking after better bread 
Than any that is made of wheat ? 
You know that people nowadays 
To what is old give little praise ; 
All must be new in prose and verse : 
They want hot bread, or something worse, 




Fresh every morning, and half baked ; 


Her crew of ghosts was all on deck 


The wholesome bread of yesterday, 


Or clambering up the shrouds ; 


Too stale for them, is thrown away, 


The boatswain's whistle, the captains hail, 


Nor is their thirst with water slaked. " 


Were like the piping of the gale, 




And thunder m the clouds. 


As oft we see the sky in May 




Threaten to rain, and yet not rain, 


And close behind the Carmilhan 


The Poet's face, before so gay, 
Was clouded with a look of pain, 


There rose up from the sea, 


As from a foundered ship of stone, 


But suddenly brightened up again ; 


Three bare and splintered masts alone : 


And Avithout further let or stay 


They were the Chimneys Three. 


He told his tale of yesterday. 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



215 



THE POET'S TALE. 



LADY WENT WORT II. 



One hundred years ago, and something more, 
In Queen Street, Portsmouth, at her tavern door, 
Neat as a pin, and blooming as a rose, 
Stood Mistress Stavers in her furbelows, 
Just as her cuckoo-clock was striking nine. 
Above her head, resplendent on the sign, 
The portrait of the Earl of Halifax, 
In scarlet coat and periwig of flax, 
Surveyed at leisure all her varied charms, 
Her cap, her bodice, her white folded arms, 
And half resolved, though he was past his prime, 
And rather damaged by the lapse of time, 
To fall down at her feat, and to declare 
The passion that had driven him to despair. 
For from his lofty station he had soen 
Stavers, her husband, dressed in bottle-green, 
Drive his new Flying Stage-coach, four in hand, 
Down the long lane, and out into the land, 
And knew that he was far upon the way 
To Ipswich and to Boston on the Bay ! 

Just then the meditations of the Earl 
Were interrupted by a little girl, 
Barefooted, ragged, with neglected hair, 
Eyes full ot laughter, neck and shoulders bare, 
A thin slip of a girl, like a new moon, 
Sure to be rounded into beauty soon, 
A creature men would worship and adore, 
Though now in mean habilimonts she bore 
A pail of water dripping, through the street, 
And bathing, as she went, her naked feet. 

It was a pretty picture, full of grace, — 
The slender form, the delicate, thin face ; 
The swaying motion, as she hurried by ; 
The shining feet, the laughter in her eye, 
That o'er her face in ripples gleamed and glanced, 
As in her pail the shifting sunbeam danced : 
And with uncommon feelings of delight 
The Earl of Halifax beheld the sight. 
Not so Dame Stavers, for he heard her say 
These words, or thought he did, as plain as daj r : 
11 O Martha Hilton ! Fie ! how dare you go 
About the town half dressed, and looking so ! " 
At which the gypsy laughed, and straight re- 
plied : 
" No matter how I look ; I yet shall ride 
In my own chariot, ma'am," And on the child 
The Earl of Halifax benignly smiled, 
As with her heavy burden she passed on, 
Look back, then turned the corner, and was gone. 

What next, upon that memorable day, 
Arrested his attention was a gay 
And brilliant equipage, that flashed and spuu, 
The silver harness glittering in the sun, 
Outriders with red jackets, lithe and lank, 
Pounding the saddles as they rose and sank, 
While all alone within the chariot sat 
A portly person with three-corned hat, 
A crimson velvet coat, head high in air, 
Gold-headed cane, and nicely powdered hair, 
And diamond buckles sparkling at his knees, 
Dignified, stately, florid, much at ease. 
Onward the pageant swept, and as it passed, 
Fair Mistress Stavers courtesied low and fast ; 
For this was Governor Wentworth, driving down 
To Little Harbor, just beyond the town, 
Where his Great House stood looking out to sea, 
A goodly place, where it was good to be. 

It was a pleasant mansion, an abode 

Near and yet hidden from the great high-road, 

Sequestered among trees, a noble pile, 

Baronial and colonial in its style ; 

Gables and dormer-windows everywhere, 

And stacks of chimneys rising high in air, — 



Pandaean pipes, on which all winds that blew 
Made mournful music the whole winter through. 
Within, unwonted splendors met the eye, 
Panels, and floors of oak, and tapestry ; 
Carved chimney-pieces, where on brazen dogs 
Revelled and roared the Christmas fires of logs j 
Doors opening into darkness unawares. 
Mysterious passages, and flights of stairs ; 
And on the walls, in heavy gilded frames, 
The ancestral Wentworths with Old-Scripture 
names. 

Such was the mansion where the great man 

dwelt, 
A widower and childless ; and he felt 
The loneliness, the uncongenial gloom, 
That like a presence haunted every room ; 
For though not given to weakness, he could feel 
The pain of wounds, that ache because they heal. 

The years came and the years went, — seven in all, 
And passed in cloud and sunshine o'er the Hall ; 
The dawns their splendor through its chambers 

shed, 
The sunsets flushed its western windows red ; 
The snow was on its roofs, the wind, the rain ; 
Its woodlands were in leaf and bare again ; 
Moons waxed and waned, the lilacs bloomed and 

died, 
fn the broad river ebbed and flowed the tide, 
Ships went to sea, and ships came home from sea, 
And the slow years sailed by and ceased to be. 

And all these years had Martha Hilton served 
In the Great House, not wholly unobserved : 
By day, by night, the silver crescent grew. 
Though hidden by clouds, her light still shining 

through ; 
A maid of all work, whether coarse or fine, 
A servant who made service seem divine ! 
Through her each room was fair to look upon ; 
The mirrors glistened, and the brasses shone, 
The very knocker on the outer door. 
If she but passed, was brighter than before. 

And now the ceaseless turning of the mill 
Of Time, that never for an hour stands still, 
Ground out the Governor's sixtieth birthday, 
And powdered his brown hair with silver-gray. 
The robbin, the forerunner of the spring, 
The bluebird with his jocund carolling. 
The restless swallows building in the eaves, 
The golden buttercups, the grass, the leaves, 
The lilacs tossing in the winds of May, 
All welcomed this majestic holiday ! 
He gave a splendid banquet, served on plate, 
Sucii as became the Governor of the State, 
Who represented England and the King, 
And was magnificent in everything. 
He had invited all his friends and peers, 
The Pepperels, the Langdons, and the Lears, 
The Sparhawks, the Penhallows, and the rest ; 
For why repeat the name of every guest ? 
But I must mention one, in bands and gown. 
The rector there, the Reverend Arthur "Brown 
Of the Established Church ; with smiling face 
He sat beside the Governor and said grace ; 
And then the feast went on, as others do, 
But ended as none other I e'er knew. 

When they had drunk the King, with many a 

cheer, 
The Governor whispered in a servant's ear. 
Who disappeared, and presently there stood 
Within the room, in perfect womanhood, 
A maiden, modest and yet self-possessed, 
Youthful and beautiful and simply dressed. 
Can this be Martha Hilton ? It must be ! 
Yes, Martha Hilton, and no other she ! 
Dowered with the beauty of her twenty years, 
How ladylike, how queenlike she appears ; 



216 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



The pale, thin crescent of the days gone by 

Is Dian now in all her majesty ! 

Yet scarce a guest perceived that she was there, 

Until the Governor, rising from his chair, 

Played slightly with his ruffles, then looked 

down, 
And said unto the Reverend Arthur Brown : 
11 This is my birthday : it shall likewise be 
My wedding-day ; and you shall marry me ! " 

The listening guests were greatly mystified, 
None more so than the rector, who replied : 
11 Marry you? Yes, that were a pleasant task, 
Your Excellency ; but to whom ? I ask." 
The Governor answered : " To this lady here ; " 
And beckoned Martha Hilton to draw near. 
She came and stood, all blushes, at his side. 
The rector paused. The impatient Governor 

cried : 
u This is the lady ; do you hesitate ? 
Then I command you as chief magistrate." 
The rector read the service loud and clear : 
" Dearly beloved, we are gathered here," 
And so on to the end. At his command 
On the fourth finger of her fair left hand 
The Governor placed the ring ; and that was all : 
Martha was Lady Wentworth of the Hall ! 



INTERLUDE. 

Well pleased the audience heard the tale. 

The Theologian said : u Indeed, 

To praise you there is little need ; 

One almost hears the farmer's flail 

Thresh out your wheat, nor does there fail 

A certain freshness, as you said, 

And sweetness as of home-made bread. 

But not less sweet and not less fresh 

Are many legends that I know, 

Writ by the monks of long-ago, 

Who loved to mortify the flesh, 

So that the soul might purer grow, 

And rise to a diviner state ; 

And one of these — perhaps of all 

Most beautiful — I now recall, 

And with permission will narrate ; 

Hoping thereby to make amends 

For that grim tragedy of mine, 

As strong and black as Spanish wine, 

I told last night, and wish almost 

It had remained untold, my friends ; 

For Torquemada 1 s awful ghost 

Came to me in the dreams I dreamed, 

And in the darkness glared and gleamed 

Like a great lighthouse on the coast." 

The Student laughing said : " Far more 

Like to some dismal fire of bale 

Flaring portentous on a hill ; 

Or torches lighted on a shore 

By wreckers in a midnight gale. 

No matter ; be it as you will, 

Only go forward with your tale." 



THE THEOLOGIAN'S TALE. 

THE LEGEND BEAUTIFUL. 

"Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled ! 
That is what the Vision said. 

In his chambpr all alone, 
Kneeling on the floor of stone, 
Prayed the Monk in deep contrition 
For his sins of indecision, 
Prayed for greater seK-denial 
In temptation and in trial ; 



It was noonday by the dial, 
And the Monk was all alone. 

Suddenly, as if it lightened, 
An unwonted splendor brightened 
All within him and without him 
In that narrow cell of stone ; 
And he saw the Blessed Vision 
Of our Lord, with light Elysian 
Like a vesture wrapped about him, 
Like a garment round him thrown. 

Not as crucified and slain, 
Not in agonies of pain, 
Not with bleeding hands and feet, 
Did the Monk his Master see ; 
But as in the village street, 
In the house or harvest-field, 
Halt and lame and blind he healed, 
When he walked in Galilee. 

In an attitude imploring, 

Hands upon his bosom crossed. 

Wondering, worshipping, adoring, 

Knelt the Monk in rapture lost. 

Lord, he thought, in heaven that reignest, 

Who am I, that thus thou deignest 

To reveal thyself to me ? 

Who am I, that from the centre 

Of thy glory thou shouldst enter 

This poor cell, my guest to be ? 

Then amid his exaltation, 
Loud the convent bell appalling, 
From its belfry calling, calling, 
Rang through court and corridor 
With persistent iteration 
He had never heard before. 
It was now the appointed hour 
When alike in shine or shower, 
Winter's cold or summer's heat, 
To the convent portals came 
All the blind and halt and lame, 
All the beggars of the street, 
For their daily dole of food 
Dealt them by the brotherhood ; 
And their almoner was he 
Who upon his bended knee, 
Rapt in silent ecstasy 
Of divinest self-surrender, 
Saw the Vision and the Splendor. 

Deep distress and hesitation 
Mingled with his adoration ; 
Should he go, or should he stay ? 
Should he leave the poor to wait 
Hungry at the convent gate, 
Till the Vision passed away ? 
Should he slight his radiant guest, 
Slight this visitant celestial, 
For a crowd of ragged, bestial 
Beggars at the convent gate ? 
Would the Vision there remain ? 
Would the Vision come again ? 
Then a voice within his breast 
Whispered, audible and clear 
As if to the outward ear : 
"Do thy duty ; ihat is best ; 
Leave unto thy Lord the rest ! " 

Straightway to his feet he started, 
And with longing look intent 
On the Blessed Vision bent, 
Slowly from his cell departed, 
Slowly on his errand went. 

At the gate the poor were waiting, 
Looking through the iron grating, 
W T ith that terror in the eye 
That is only seen in those 
Who amid their wants and woes 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INCT. 



217 



Hear the sound of doors that close, 
And of feet that pass them by ; 
Grown familiar with disfavor. 
Grown familiar with the savor 
Of the bread by which men die ! 
lint to-day, they knew not why, 
Like the gate of Paradise 
Seamed the convent gate to rise, 
Like a sacrament divine 
Seemed to them the bread and wine. 
In his heart the Monk was praying, 
Thinking of the homeless poor, 
What they suffer and endure ; 
What we see not, what we see ; 
And the inward voice was saying : 
11 Whatsoever thing thou doest 
To the least of mine and lowest, 
That thou doest unto me ! " 

Unto me ! but had the Vision 
Come to him in beggar s clothing, 
Come a mendicant imploring, 
Would he then have knelt adoring, 
Or have listened with derision, 
And have turned away with loathing ? 

Thus his conscience put the question, 
Full of troublesome suggestion, 
As at length, with hurried pace, 
Towards his cell he turned his face, 
And beheld the convent bright 
With a supernatural light, 
Like a luminous cloud expanding 
Over floor and wall and ceiling. 

But he paused with awe-struck feeling 

At the threshold of his door, 

For the Vision still was standing 

As he left it there before, 

When the convent bell appalling, 

From its belfry calling, calling, 

Summoned him to feed the poor. 

Through the long hour intervening 

It had waited his return, 

And he felt his bosom burn, 

Comprehending all the meaning, 

When the Blessed Vision said, 

14 Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled ! " 



INTERLUDE. 

All praised the Legend more or less ; 

Some liked the moral, some the verse ; 

Some thought it better, and some worse 

Than other legends of the past ; 

Until, with ill-concealed distress 

At all their cavilling, at last 

The Theologian gravely said : 

" The Spanish proverb, then, is right ; 

Consult your friends on what you do, 

And one will say that it is white, 

And others say that it is red." 

And " Amen ! " quoth the Spanish Jew. 

" Six stories told ! We must have seven, 
A cluster like the Pleiades, 
And lo ! it happens, as with these, 
That one is missing from our heaven. 
Where is the Landlord ? Bring him here 
Let the Lost Pleiad reappear." 

Thus the Sicilian cried, and went 
Forthwith to seek his missing star, 
But did not find him in the bar, 
A place that landlords most frequent, 
Nor yet beside the kitchen fire, 
Nor up the stairs, nor in the hall ; 
It was in vain to ask or call, 
There were no tidings of the Squire. 



So he came back with downcast head, 
Exclaiming : "Well, our bashful host 
Hath surely given up the ghost. 
Another proverb says the dead 
Can tell no tales ; and that is true. 
It follows, then, that one of you 
Must tell a story in his stead. 
You must," he to the Student said, 
tl Who know so many of the best, 
And tell them better than the rest." 

Straight, by these flattering words beguiled, 

The Student, happy as a child 

When he is called a little man, 

Assumed the double task imposed, 

And without more ado unclosed 

His smiling lips, and thus began. 



THE STUDENT'S SECOND TALK 

THE BARON OF ST. CASTINE. 

Baron Castinr of St. Castine 

Has left his chateau in the Pyrenees, 

And sailed across the western seas. 

When he went away from his fair demesne 

The birds were building, the woods were green ; 

And now the winds of winter blow 

Round the turrets of the old chateau, 

The birds are silent and unseen, 

The leaves lie dead in the ravine, 

And the Pyrenees are white with snow. 

| His father, lonely, old, and gray, 
I Sits by the fireside day by day, 
! Tiiinking ever one thought of care ; 

Through the southern windows, narrow and tall, 

The sun shines into the ancient hall, 

And makes a glory round his hair. 

The house-dog, stretched beneath his chair, 

Groans in his sleep as if in pain, 

Then wakes, and yawns, and sleeps again, 

So silent is it everywhere, — 

So silent you can hear the mouse 
I Run ami rummage along the beams 
i Behind the wainscot of the wall ; 
I And the old man rouses from his dreams, 
i And wanders restless through the house, 

As if he heard strange voices call. 

His footsteps echo along the floor 
Of a distant passage, and pause awhile; 
He is standing by an open door 
Looking long, with a sad, sweet smile, 
Into the room of his absent son. 
There is the bed on which he lay, 
There are the pictures bright and gay, 
Horses and hounds and sun-lit seas , 
There are his powder-flask and gun. 
And his hunting-knives m shape of a fan ; 
The chair by the window where he sat, 
With the clouded tiger-skin for a mat, 
Looking out on the Pyrenees, 
Looking out on Mount Marbore 
And the Seven Valleys of Lavedan. 
Ah me ! he turas away and sighs , 
There is a mist before his eyes. 

At night, whatever the weather be, 
Wind or rain or starry heaven, 
j Just as the clock is striking seven, 
Those who look from the windows see 
The village Curate, with lantern and maid, 
Come through the gateway from the park, 
And cross the courtyard damp and dark, — 
A ring of light in a ring of shade. 

And now at the old man's side he stands, 
His voice is cheery, his heart expands, 



218 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



He gossips pleasantly, by the blaze 
Of tlie fire of fagots, about old days, 
And Cardinal Mazann and the Fronde, 
And the Cardinal's nieces fair and fond, 
And what they did, and what they said, 
When they heard his Eminence was dead. 

And after a pause the old man says, 

His mind still coming back again 

To the one sad thought that naunts his brain, 

" Are there any tidings from over sea ? 

Ah, why has that wild boy gone from me ? " 

And. the Curate answers, looking down, 

Harmless and docile as a lamb, 

" Young blood ! young blood ! It must so be ! " 

And draws from the pocket of his gown 

A handkerchief like an oriflamb, 

And wipes his spectacles, and they play 

Their little game of lansquenet 

In silence for an hour or so, 

Till the clock at nine strikes loud and clear 

From the village lying asleep below, 

And across the courtyard, into the dark 

Of the winding pathway in the park. 

Curate and lantern disappear, 

And darkness reigns in the old chateau. 

The ship has come back from over sea, 
She has been signalled from below, 
And into the harbor of Bordeaux 
The sails with her gallant company. 
But among them is nowhere seen 
The brave young Baron of St. Castine ; 
He hath tarried behind, I ween, 
In the beautiful land of Acadie ! 

And the father paces to and fro 

Through the chambers of the old chateau, 

Waiting, waiting to hear the hum 

Of wheels on the road that runs below, 

Of servants hurrying here and there, 

The voice in the courtyard, the step on the stair, 

Waiting for some one who doth not come ! 

But letters there are, which the old man reads 

To the Curate, when he comes at night, 

Word by word, as an acolyte 

Repeats his prayers, and tells his beads ; 

Letters full of the rolling sea, 

Full of a young man's joy to be 

Abroad in the world, alone and free ; 

Full of adventures and wonderful scenes 

Of hunting the deer through forests vast 

In the royal grant of Pierre du Gast ; 

Of nights in the tents of the Tarratines ; 

Of Madocaw r ando the Indian chief, 

And his daughters, as glorious as queens, 

And beautiful beyond belief ; 

And so soft the tones of their native tongue, 

The words are not spoken, they are sung ! 

And the Curate listens, and smiling says : 

u Ah yes, dear friend ! in our young days 

We should have liked to hunt the deer 

All day amid those forest scenes, 

And to sleep in the tents of the Tarratines ; 

But now it is better sitting here 

Within four walls, and without the fear 

Of losing our hearts to Indian queens ; 

For nfan is fire and woman is tow, 

And the Somebody comes and begins to blow." 

Then a gleam of distrust and vague surmise 

Shines in the father's gentle eyes, 

As fire-light on a window-pane 

Glimmers and vanishes again ; 

But naught he answers ; he only sighs, 

And for a moment bows his head ; 

Then, as their custom is, they play 

Their little game of lansquenet, 

And another day is with the dead. 

Another day, and many a day 



And many a week and month depart, 
When a fatal letter wings its way 
Across the sea, like a bird of prey, 
And strikes and tears the old man's heart. 
Lo ! the young Baron of St. Castine, 
Swift as the wind is, and as wild, 
Has married a dusky Tarratine, 
Has married Madocawando's child ! 

The letter drops from the father's hand ; 
Though the sinews of his heart are wrung, 
He utters no cry, he breathes no prayer, 
No malediction falls from his tongue ; 
But his stately figure, erect and grand, 
Bends and sinks like a column of sand 
In the whirlwind of his great despair. 
Dying, yes, dying ! His latest breath 
Of parley at the door of death 
Is a blessing on his wayward son. 
Lower and lower on his breast 
Sinks his gray head ; he is at rest ; 
No longer he waits for any one. 

For many a year the old chateau 

Lies tenantless and desolate ; 

Rank grasses in the courtyard grow, 

About its gables caws the crow ; 

Only the porter at the gate 

Is left to guard it, and to wait 

The coming of the rightful heir ; 

No other life or sound is there ; 

No more the Curate comes at night, 

No more is seen the unsteady light, 

Threading the alleys of the park ; 

The windows of the hall are dark. 

The chambers are dreary, cold, and bare ! 

At length, at last, when the winter is past, 
i And birds are building, and woods are greon, 
j With flying skirts is the Curate seen 
J Speeding along the woodland way, 
i Humming gayiy, " No day is so long 

But it comes at last to vesper-song." 

He stops at the porter's lodge to say 

That at last the Baron of St. Castine 

Is coming home with his Indian queen, 

Is coming without a week's delay ; 

And all the house must be swept and clean, 

And all things set in good array ! 

And the solemn pcrter shakes his head ; 

And the answer he makes is : " Lack-a-day ! 

We will see, as the blind man said ! " 

Alert since first the day began, 
The cock upon the village church 
Looks northward from his airy perch, 
As if beyond the ken of man 
To see the ships come sailing on, 
And pass the Isle of Oleron, 
And pass the Tower of Cordouan. 

In the church below is cold in clay 

The heart that would have leaped for joy — 

O tender heart of truth and trust ! — 

To see the coming of that day ; 

In the church below the lips are dust ; 

Dust are the hands, and dust the feet, 

That would have been so swift to meet 

The coming of that wayward boy. 

At night the front of the old chateau 

Is a blaze of light above and below ; 

There 's a sound of wheels and hoofs in the street, 

A cracking of whips, and scamper of feet, 

Bells are ringing, and horns are blown, 

And the Baron hath come again to his own. 

The Curate is waiting in the hall, 

Most eager and alive of all 

To welcome the Baron and Baroness , 

But his mind is full of vague distress, 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



219 



For he hath read in Jesuit books 

Of those children of the wilderness, 

And now, good, simple man ! he looks 

To see a painted savage stride 

Into the room, with shoulders bare, 

And eagle feathers in her hair, 

And around her a robe of panther's hide. 

Instead, he beholds with secret shame 

A form of beauty uncle fined, 

A loveliness without a name, 

Not of degree, but more of kind ; 

Nor bold nor shy, nor short nor tall, 

But a new mingling of them all. 

Yes, beautiful beyond belief, 

Transfigured and transfused, he sees 

The lady of the Pyrenees, 

The daughter of the Indian chief. 

Beneath the shadow of her hair 

The gold-bronze color of the skin 

Seems lighted by a fire within, 

As when a burst of sunlight shines 

Beneath a sombre grove of pines, — 

A dusky splendor in the air. 

The two small hands, that now are pressed 

In his, seem made to be caressed, 

They lie so warm, and soft, and still, 

Like birds half hidden in a nest, 

Trustf ul, and innocent of ill. 

And ah ! he cannot believe his ears 

When her melodious voice he hears 

Speaking his native Gascon tongue ; 

The words she utters seem to be 

Part of some poem of Goudouli, 

They are not spoken, they are sung ! 

And the Baron smiles, and says, "You see, 

I told you but the simple truth ; 

Ah, you may trust the eyes of youth ! " 

Down in the village day by day 

The people gossip in their way, 

And stare to see the Baroness pass 

On Sunday morning to early Mass ; 

And when she kneeleth down to pray, 

They wonder, and whisper together, and say, 

tL Surely this is no heathen lass ! " 

And in course of time they learn to bless 

The Baron and the Baroness. 

And in course of time the Curate learns 

A secret so dreadful, that by turns 

He is ice and fire, he freezes and burns. 

The Baron at confession hath said, 

That though this woman be his wife, 

He hath wed her as the Indians wed. 

He hath bought her for a gun and a knife ! 

And the Curate replies : " O profligate, 

O Prodigal Son ! return once more 

To the open arms and the open door 

Of the Church, or ever it be too late. 

Thank God, thy father did not live 

To see what he could not forgive ; 

On thee, so reckless and perverse, 

He left his blessing, not his curse. 

But the nearer the dawn the darker the night, 

And by going wrong all things come right ; 

Things have been mended that were worse, 

And the worse, the nearer they are to mend. 

For the sake of the living and the dead, 

Thou shalt be wed as Christians wed, 

And all things comes to a happy end." 

O sun, that followest the night, 
In yon blue sky, serene and pure, 
And pourest thine impartial light 
Alike on mountain and on moor, 



Paused for a moment in thy course, 
And bless the bridegroom and the bride ! 
O Gave, that from thy hidden source 
In yon mysterious mountain-side 
Pursuest thy wandering way alone. 
And leaping down its steps of stone, 
Along the meadow-lands demure 
Stealest away to the Adour, 
Pause for a moment in thy course 
To bless the bridegroom and the bride ! 

The choir is singing the matin song. 

The doors of the church are opened wide, 

The people crowd, and press, and throng 

To see the bridegroom and the bride. 

Tney enter and pass along the nave ; 

They stand upon the father's grave ; 

The bells are ringing soit and slow ; 

The living above and the dead below 

Give their blessing on one and twain ; 

The warm wind blows from the hills of Spain, 

The birds are building, the leaves are green, 

And Baron Castine of St. Castine 

Hath come at last to his own again. 



FINALE. 

"NUNC plaudite! " the Student cried. 

When he had finished ; ik now applaud, 

As Roman actors used to say 

At the conclusion of a play ; " 

And rose, and spread his hands abroad, 

And smiling bowed from side to side, 

As one who bears the palm away. 

And generous was the applause and loud, 

But less for him than for the sun, 

That even as the tale was done 

Burst from its canopy of cloud, 

And lit the landscape' with the blaze 

Of afternoon on autumn days. 

And filled the room with light, and made 

The fire of logs a painted shade. 

A sudden wind from out the west 
Blew all its trumpets loud and shrill ; 
The windows rattled with the blast, 
The oak-trees shouted as it passed, 
And straight, as if by fear possessed, 
The cloud encampment on the hill 
Broke up, and fluttering flag and tent 
Vanished into the firmament, 
And down the valley fled amain 
The rear of the retreating rain. 

Only far up in the blue sky 

A mass of clouds, like drifted snow 

Suffused with a faint Alpine glow, 

Was heaped together, vast and high, 

On which a shattered rainbow hung, 

Not rising like the ruined arch 

Of some aerial aqueduct, 

But like a roseate garland plucked 

From an Olympian god, and flung 

Aside in his triumphal march. 

Like prisoners from their dungeon gloom, 
Like birds escaping from a snare. 
Like school-boys at the hour of pla3 r , 
All left at once the pent-up room, 
And rushed into the open air ; 
And no more tales were told that day. 



220 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



PART THIRD. 



PRELUDE. 



The evening came ; the golden vane 
A moment in the sunset glanced, 
Then darkened, and then gleamed again 
As from the east the moon advanced 
And touched it with a softer light ; 
While underneath, with flowing mane, 
Upon the sign the Red Horse pranced, 
And galloped forth into the night. 

But brighter than the afternoon 
That followed the dark day of rain, 
And brighter than the golden vane 
That glistened in the rising moon, 
Within the ruddy fire-light gleamed ; 
And every separate window-pane, 
Backed by the outer darkness, showed 
A mirror, where the flamelets gleamed 
And flickered to and fro, and seemed 
A bonfire lighted in the road. 

Amid the hospitable glow, 
Like an old actor on the stage, 
With the uncertain voice of age, 
The singing chimney chanted low 
The homely songs of long ago. 

The voice that Ossian heard of yore, 

When midnight winds were in his hall ; 

A ghostly and appealing call, 

A sound of days that are no more ! 

And dark as Ossian sat the Jew, 

And listened to the sound, and knew 

The passing of the airy hosts, 

The gray and misty cloud of ghosts 

In their interminable flight ; 

And listening muttered in his beard, 

With accent indistinct and weird, 

" Who are ye, children of the Night ? " 

Beholding his mysterious face, 
"■ Tell me," the gay Sicilian said, 
"Why was it that in breaking bread 
At supper, you bent down your head 
And, musing, paused a little space, 
As one who says a silent grace ? " 

The Jew replied, with solemn air, 
" I said the Manichaean's prayer. 
It was his faith, — perhaps is mine, — 
That life in all its forms is one, 
And that its secret conduits run 
Unseen, but in unbroken line, 
From the great fonntain-head divine 
Through man and beast, through grain and 
Howe'er we struggle, strive, and cry, 
From death there can be no escape, 
And no escape from life, alas ! 
Because we cannot die, but pass 
From one into another shape : 
It is but into life we die. 

1 k Therefore the Manichaean said 

This simple prayer on breaking bread, 

Lest he with hasty hand or knife 

Might wound the incarcerated life, 

The soul in things that we call dead : 

' I did not reap thee, did not bind thee, 

I did not thrash thee, did not grind thee, 

Nor did I in the oven bake thee ! 

It was not I, it was another 

Did these things unto thee, O brother ; 

I only have thee, hold thee, break thee ! ' " 

" That birds have souls I can concede," 
The poet cried, with glowing cheeks ; 
"The flocks that from their beds of reed 



Uprising north or southward fly, 

And riving write upon the sky 

The biforked letter of the Greeks, 

As hath been said by Rucellai ; 

All birds that sing or chirp or cry, 

Even those migratory bands, 

The minor poets of the air, 

The plover, peep, and sanderling, 

That hardly can be said to sing. 

But pipe along the barren sands, — 

All these have souls akin to ours ; 

So hath the lovely race of flowers : 

Thus much I grant, but nothing more. 

The rusty hinges of a door 

Are not aiive because they creak ; 

This chimney, with its dreary roar, 

These rattling windows, do not speak ! " 

" To me they speak," the Jew replied ; 

•' And in the sounds that sink and soar, 

I hear the voices of a tide 

That breaks upon an unknown shore ! " 

Here the Sicilian interfered : 
u That was your dream, then, as you dozed 
A moment since, with eyes half-closed, 
And murmured something in your beard." 
The Hebrew smiled, and answered, " Nay ; 
Not that, but something very near ; 
Like, and yet not the same, may seem 
The vision of my waking dream ; 
Before it wholly dies away, 
Listen to me, and you shall hear." 



THE SPANISH JEW'S TALE. 



King Solomon, before his palace gate 
At evening, on the pavement tesseliate 
Was walking with a stranger from the East, 
Arrayed in rich attire as for a feast, 
The mighty Runjeet-Sing, a learned man, 
And Rajah of the realms of Hindostan. 
And as they walked the guest became aware 
Of a white figure in the twilight air, 
Gazing intent, as one who with surprise 
His form and features seemed to recognize ; 
And in a whisper to the king he said : 
" What is yon shape, that, pallid as the dead, 
Is watching me, as if he sought to trace 
In the dim light the features of my face ? " 

The king looked, and replied : " I know him well ; 
It is the Angel men call Azvael, 
'T is the Death Angel ; what hast thou to fear ? " 
And the guest answered : u Lest he should come 

near, 
And speak to me, and take away my breath ! 
Save me from Azrael, save me from death ! 

king, that hast dominion o'er the wind, 
Bid it arise and bear me hence to Ind." 

The king gazed upward at the cloudless sky, 

Whispered a word, and raised his hand on high, 

And lo ! the signet-ring of chrysoprase 

On his uplifted finger seemed to blaze 

With hidden fire, and rushing from the west 

There came a mighty wind, and seized the guest 

And lifted him from earth, and on they passed, 

His shining garments streaming in the blast, 

A silken banner o'er the walls upreared, 

A purple cloud, that gleamed and disappeared. 

Then said the Angel, smiling : "If this man 

Be Rajah Runjeet-Sing of Hindostan, 

Thou hast done well in listening to his prayer ; 

1 was upon my way to seek him there. " 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 




It is the Angel men call Azrael, 
"T is the Death Angel/' 1 



INTERLUDE. 

" O Edrehi, forbear to-night 
Your ghostly legends of affright, 
And let the Talmud rest in peace ; 
Spare us your dismal tales of death 
That almost take away one's breath ; 
So doing, may your tribe increase. " 

Thus the Sicilian said ; then went 
And on the spinet's rattling keys 
Played Marianina, like a breeze 
From Naples and the Southern seas, 
That brings us the delicious scent 
Of citron and of orange trees. 
And memories of soft days of ease 
At Capri and Amalli spent. 

u Not so," the eager poet said ; 
"At least, not so before I tell 
The story of my Azrael, 
An angel mortal as ourselves, 
Which in an ancient tome I found 
Upon a convent's dusty shelves, 
Chained with an iron chain, and bound 
In parchment, and with clasps of brass, 



; Lest from its prison, some dark day, 
It might be stolen or steal away, 
While the good friars were singing mass. 

" It is a tale of Charlemagne, 
When like a thunder-cloud, that lowers 
And sweeps from mountain-crest to coast. 
With lightning flaming through its showers, 
He swept across the Lombard plain, 
Beleaguering with his warlike train 
I Pavia, the countrv's pride and boast, 
The City of the Hundred Towers." 
Thus heralded the tale began, 
And thus in sober measure ran. 



THE POET'S TALE. 

CHARLEMAGNE. 

Olgeu the Dane and Desiderio, 
King of the Lombards, on a lofty tower 
Stood gazing northward o'er the rolling plains, 
League after league of harvests, to the foot 



222 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



Of the snow-crested Alps, and saw approach 
A mighty army, thronging all the roads 
That led into the city. And the King 
Said unto Olger, who had passed his youth 
As hostage at the court of France, and knew 
The Emperor's form and face : "Is Charlemagne 
Among that host ? " And Olger answered : 
"No." 

And still the innumerable multitude 
Flowed onward and increased, until the King 
Cried in amazement : " Surely Charlemagne 
Is coining in the midst of all these knights ! " 
And Olger answered slowly : "No ; not yeb ; 
He will not come so soon. " Then much disturbed 
King Desiderio asked : " What shall we do, 
If he approach with a still greater army ? " 
And Olger answered : " When he shall appear, 
You will behold what manner of man he is ; 
But what will then befall us I know not." 

Then came the guard that never knew repose, 
The Paladins of France ; and at the sight 
The Lombard King o'ercome with terror cried 
"This must be Charlemagne ! " and as before 
Did Olger answer : " No ; not yet, not yet." 

And then appeared in panoply complete 

The Bishops and the Abbots and the Priests 

Of the imperial chapel, and the Counts ; 

And Desiderio could no more endure 

The light of day, nor yet encounter death, 

But sobbed aloud and said : " Let. us go down 

And hide us in the bosom of the earth, 

Far from the sight and anger of a foe 

So terrible as this ! " And Olger said : 

" When you behold the harvests in the fields 

Shaking with fear, the Po and the Ticino 

Lashing the city walls with iron waves, 

Then may you know that Charlemagne is come. 1 ' 

And even as he spake, in the northwest, 

Lo ! there uprose a black and threatening cloud, 

Out of whose bosom flashed the light of arms 

Upon the people pent up in the city ; 

A light more terrible than any darkness ; 

And Charlemagne appeared ; — a Man of Iron ! 

His helmet was of iron, and his gloves 

Of iron, and his breastplate and his greaves 

And tassets were of iron, and his shield. 

In his left hand he held an iron spear, 

In his right hand his sword invincible. 

The horse he rode on had the strength of iron, 

And color of iron. All who went before him, 

Beside him and behind him, his whole host, 

Were armed with iron, and their hearts within 

them 
Were stronger than the armor that they wore. 
The fields and all the roads were filled with iron, 
And points of iron glistened in the sun 
And shed a terror through the city streets. 
This at a single glance Olger the Dane 
Saw from the tower, and turning to the King 
Exclaimed in haste : " Behold ! this is the man 
You looked for with such eagerness ! " and then 
Fell as one dead at Desiderio 1 s feet. 



INTERLUDE. 

Well pleased all listened to the tale, 
That drew, the Student said, its pith 
And marrow from the ancient myth 
Of some one with an iron flail ; 
Or that portentous Man of Brass 
Hephaestus made in days of yore, 
Who stalked about the Cretan shore, 
And saw the ships appear and pass, 



And threw stones at the Argonauts, 

Being filled with indiscriminate ire 

That tangled and perplexed his thoughts ; 

But, like a hospitable host, 

When strangers landed on the coast, 

Heated himself red-hot with fire, 

And hugged them in his arms, and pressed 

Their bodies to his burning breast. 

The poet answered : "No, not thus 

The legend rose ; it sprang at first 

Out of the hunger and the thirst 

In all men for the marvellous. 

And thus it filled and satisfied 

The imagination of mankind, 

And this ideal to the mind 

Was truer than historic fact. 

Fancy enlarged and multiplied 

The terrors of the awful name 

Of Charlemagne, till he became 

Armipotent in every act, 

And, clothed in mystery, appeared 

Not what men saw, but what they feared. 

" Besides, unless my memory fail, 

Your some one with an iron flail 

Is not an ancient myth at all, 

But comes much later on the scene, 

As Talus in the Faerie Queene, 

The iron groom of Artegall, 

Who threshed out falsehood and deceit, 

And truth upheld, and righted wrong, 

As was, as is the swallow, fleet. 

And as the lion is, was strong." 

The Theologian said : " Perchance 

Your chronicler in writing this 

Had in his mind the Anabasis, 

Where Xenophon describes the advance 

Of Artaxerxes to the fight ; 

At first the low gray cloud of dust, 

And then a blackness o'er the fields 

As of a passing thunder-gust, 

Then flash of brazen armor bright, 

And ranks of men, and spears up-thrust, 

Bowmen and troops with wicker shields, 

And cavalry equipped in white, 

And chariots ranged in front of these 

With scythes upon their axle-trees. " 

To this the Student answered : " Well, 
I also have a tale to tell 
Of Charlemagne ; a tale that throws 
A softer light, more tinged with rose, 
Than your grim apparition cast 
Upon the darkness of the past. 
Listen, and hear in English rhyme 
What the good Monk of Lauresheim 
Gives as the gossip of his time, 
In mediaeval Latin prose." 



THE STUDENT'S TALE. 

EMMA ATMD EGINHARD. 

When Alcuin taught the sons of Charlemagne, 
In the free schools of Aix, how kings should 

reign, 
And with them taught the children of the poor 
How subjects should be patient and endure, 
He touched the lips of some, as best befit, 
With honey from the hives of Holy Writ ; 
Others intoxicated with the wine 
Of ancient history, sweet but less divine ; 
Some with the wholesome fruits of grammar fed ; 
Others with mysteries of the stars o'erhead, 
That hang suspended in the vaulted sky 
Like lamps in some fair palace vast and high. 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



223 



In sooth it was a pleasant sight to see 
That Saxon monk, with hood and rosary, 
With inkhorn at his belt, and pen and book, 
And mingled love and reverence in his look, 
Or hear the cloister and the court repeat 
The measured footfalls of his sandaled feet, 
Or watch him with the pupils of his school, 
Gentle of speech, but absolute of rule. 
Among them, always earliest in his place, 
Was Eginhard, a youth of Frankish race, 
Whose face was bright with flashes that forerun 
The splendors of a yet unrisen sun. 
To him all things were possible, and seemed 
Not what he had accomplished, but had dreamed, 
And what were tasks to others were his play, 
The pastime of an idle holiday. 

Smaragdo, Abbot of St. Michael's, said. 
With many a shrug and shaking of the head, 
Surely some demon must possess the lad, 
Who showed more wit than ever schoolboy had, 
And learned his Trivium thus without the rod ; 
But Alcuin said it was the grace of God. 

Thus he grew up, in Logic point-device, 

Perfect in Grammar, and in Rhetoric nice ; 

Science of Numbers, Geometric art, 

And lore of Stars, and Music knew by heart ; 

A Minnesinger, long before the times 

Of those who sang their love in Suabian rhymes. 

The Emperor, when he heard this good report 
Of Eginhard much buzzed about the court, 
Said to himself, "This stripling seems to be 
Purposely sent into the world for me ; 
He shall become my scribe, and shall be schooled 
In all the arts whereby the world is ruled." 
Thus did the gentle Eginhard attain 
To honor in the court of Charlemagne ; 
Became the sovereign's favorite, his right hand, 
So that his fame was great in all the land, 
And all men loved him for his modest grace 
And comeliness of figure and of face. 
An inmate of the palace, yet recluse, 
A man of books, yet sacred from abuse 
Among the armed knights with spur on heel, 
The tramp of horses and the clang of steel ; 
And as the Emperor promised he was schooled 
In all the arts by which the world is ruled. 
But the one art supreme, whose law is fate, 
The Emperor never dreamed of till too late. 

Home from her convent to the palace came 

The lovely Princess Emma, whose sweet name, 

Whispered by seneschal or sung by bard, 

Had often touched the soul of Eginhard. 

He saw her from his window, as in state 

She came, by knights attended through the gate ; 

He saw her at the banquet of that day, 

Fresh as the morn, and beautiful as May ; 

He saw her in the garden, as she strayed 

Among the flowers of summer with her maid, 

And said to him, "O Eginhard, disclose 

The meaning and the mystery of the rose ; " 

And trembling he made answer : "In good sooth, 

Its mystery is love, its meaning youth ! " 

How can I tell the signals and the signs 
By which one heart another heart divines ? 
How can I tell the many thousand ways 
By which it keeps the secret it betrays ? 

O mystery of love ! O strange romance ! 
Among the Peers and Paladins of France, 
Shining in steel, and prancing on gay steeds, 
Noble by birth, yet nobler by great deeds, 
The Princess Emma had no words nor looks 
But for this clerk, this man of thought and books, 

The summer passed, the autumn came ; the stalks 
Of lilies blackened in the garden walks ; 



The leaves fell, russet-golden and blood-red, 
Love-letters thought the poet fancy-led, 
Or Jove descending in a shower of gold 
Into the lap of Danae of old ; 
For poets cherish many a strange conceit, 
And love transmutes all nature by its heat. 

No more the garden lessons, nor the dark 
And hurried meetings in the twilight park ; 
But now the studious lamp, and the delights 
Of firesides in the silent winter nights, 
And watching from his window hour by hour 
The light that burned in Princess Emma's tower. 

At length one night, while musing by the fire, 
O'ercome at last by his insane desire, — 
For what will reckless love not do and dare ? — 
He crossed the court, and climbed the winding 

stair, 
With some feigned message in the Emperor's 

name ; 
But when he to the ladj^'s presence came 
He knelt down at her feet until she laid 
Her hand upon him, like a naked blade, 
And whispered in his ear : " Arise, Sir Knight, 
To my heart's level, O my heart's delight." 

And there he lingered till the crowing cock, 
The Alectryon of the farmyard and the flock, 
Sang his aubade with lusty voice and clear, 
To tell the sleeping world that dawn was near. 
And then they parted ; but at parting, lo ! 
They saw the palace courtyard white with snow, 
And, placid as a nun, the moon on high 
Gazing from cloudy cloisters of the sky. 
11 Alas ! " he said, " how hide the fatal line 
Of footprints leading from thy door to mine, 
And none returning ! " Ah, he little knew 
What woman's wit, when put to proof, can do ! 

That night the Emperor, sleepless with the cares 
I And troubles that attend on state affairs, 
] Had risen before the dawn, and musing gazed 
j Into the silent night, as one amazed 
I To see the calm that reigned o'er all supreme, 
! When his own reign was but a troubled dream. 
j The moon lit up the gables capped with snow, 
I And the white roofs, and half the court below, 
i And he beheld a form, that seemed to cower 
i Beneath a burden, come from Emma's tower, — 
I A woman, who upon her shoulders bore 

Clerk Eginhard to his own private door, 
I And then returned in haste, but still essayed 
I To tread the footprints she herself had made ; 
! And as she passed across the lighted space, 
| The Emperor saw his daughter Emma's face ! 

He started not ; he did not speak or moan, 
j But seemed as one who hath been turned to 

stone ; 
j And stood there like a statue, nor awoke 
Out of his trance of pain, till morning broke, 
Till the stars faded, and the moon went down, 
And o'er the towers and steeples of the town 
Came the gray daylight ; then the sun, who took 
The empire of the world with sovereign look, 
; Suffusing with a soft and golden glow 
j All the dead landscape in its shroud of snow, 
I Touching with flame the tapering chapel spires, 
j Windows and roofs, and smoke of household fires, 
And kindling park and palace as he came ; 
The stork's nest on the chimney seemed in flame. 
And thus he stood till Eginhard appeared, 
Demure and modest with his comely beard 
And flowing flaxen tresses, come to ask, 
| As was his wont, the day's appointed task. 

The Emperor looked upon him with a smile. 
And gently said : l ' My son, wait yet awhile ; 
This hour my council meets upon some great 
And very urgent business of the state. 



224 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



Come back within the hour. On thy retnrn 
The work appointed for thee shalt thou learn. " 

Having dismissed this gallant Troubadour, 
He summoned straight his council, and secure 
And steadfast in his pupose, from the throne 
All the adventure of the night made known ; 
Then asked for sentence ; and with eager breath 
Some answered banishment, and others death. 

Then spake the king : " Your sentence is not mine; 

Life is the gift of God, and is divine ; 

Nor from these palace walls shall one depart 

Who carries such a secret in his heart ; 

My better judgment points another way. 

Good Alcuin, I remember how one day 

When my Pepin o asked you, fc What are men ? 

You wrote upon his tablets with your pen, 

'Guests of the grave and travellers that pass ! 

This being true of all men, we, alas ! 

Being all fashioned of the self-same dust, 

Let us be merc'.ful as well as just ; 

This passing traveller, who hath stolen away 

The brightest jewel of my crown to-day, 

Shall of himself the precious gem restore ; 

By giving it, I make it mine once mora. 

Over those fatal footprints I will throw 

My ermine mantle like another snow." 

Then Eginhard was summoned to the hall, 
And entered, and in presence of them all, 
The Emperor said : " My son, for thou to me 
Hast been a son, and evermore shalt be, 
Long hast thou served thy sovereign, and thy zeal 
Pleads to me with importunate appeal, 
While I have been forgetful to requite 
Thy service and affection as was right. 
But now the hour is come, when I, thy lord, 
Will crown thy love with such supreme reward, 
A gift so precious kings have striven in vain 
To win it from the hands of Charlemagne." 

Then sprang the portals of the chamber wide, 
And Princess Emma entered, in the pride 
Of birth and beauty, that in part o'ercame 
The conscious terror and the blush of shame. 
And the good Emperor rose up from his throne, 
And taking her white hand within his own 
Placed it in Egin hard's and said : "My son, 
This is the gift thy constant zeal hath won ; 
Thus I repay the royal debt I owe, 
And cover up the footprints in the snow. " 



INTERLUDE. 

Thus ran the Student's pleasant rhyme 
Of Eginhard and love and youth ; 
Some doubted its historic truth, 
But while they doubted, ne'ertheless 
Saw in it gleams of truthfulness, 
And thanked the Monk of Lauresheim. 

This they discussed in various mood ; 

Then in the silence that ensued 

Was heard a sharp and sudden sound 

As of a bowstring snapped in air ; 

And the Musician with a bound 

Sprang up in terror from his chair, 

And for a moment listening stood, 

Then strode across the room, and found 

His dear, his darling violin 

Still lying safe asleep within 

Its little cradle, like a child 

That gives a sudden cry of pain, 

And wakes to fall asleep again ; 

And as he looked at it and smiled, 

By the uncertain light beguiled. 

Despair ! two strings were broken in twain. 



While all lamented and made moan, 
With many a sympathetic word 
As if the loss had been their own, 
Deeming the tones they might have heard 
Sweeter than they had heard before, 
They saw the Landlord at the door, 
The missing man, the portly Squire ! 
He had not entered, but he stood 
With both arms full of seasoned wood, 
To fcei the much-devouring fire, 
That like a lion in a cage 
Lashed its long tail and roared with rage. 

The missing man ! Ah, yes, they said, 
Missing, but whither had he fled ? 
Where had he hidden himself away ? 
No farther than the barn or shed ; 
He had not hidden himself, nor fled ; 
How should he pass the rainy day 
But in his barn with hens and hay, 
Or mending harness, cart, or sled ? 
Now, having come, he needs must stay 
And tell his tale as well as they. 

The Landlord answered only : "These 

Are logs from the dead apple-trees 

Of the old orchard planted here 

By the first Howe of Sudbury. 

Nor oak nor maple has so clear 

A flame, or burns so quietly, 

Or leaves an ash so clean and white •, " 

Thinking by this to put aside 

The impending tale that terrified ; 

When suddenly, to his delight, 

The Theologian interposed, 

Saying that when that door was closed, 

And they had stopped that draft of cold, 

Unpleasant night air, he proposed 

To tell a tale world-wide apart 

From that the Student had just told ; 

World-wide apart, and yet akin, 

As showing that the human heart 

Beats on forever as of old, 

As weli beneath the snow-white fold 

Of Quaker kerchief, as within 

Sendal or silk or cloth of geld, 

And without preface would begin. 

And then the clamorous clock struck eight, 

Deliberate, with sonorous chime 

Slow measuring out the march of time, 

Like some grave Consul of old Rome 

In Jupiter's temple driving home 

The nails that mark the year and date. 

Thus interrupted in his rhyme. 

The Theologian needs must wait ; 

But quoted Horace, where he sings 

The dire Necessity of things, 

That drives into the roofs sublime 

Of new-built houses of the great 

The adamantine nails of Fate. 

When ceased the little carillon 
To herald from its wooden tower 
The important transit of the hour, 
The Theologian hastened on, 
Content to be allowed at last 
To sing his Idyl of the Past. 



THE THEOLOGIAN'S TALE. 

ELIZABETH 
I 

"An, how short are the days! How soon the 

night overtakes us ! 
In the old countrv the twilight is longer ; but 

here in the forest 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



225 



Suddenly comes the dark, with hardly a pause in 

its coming, 
Hardly a moment between the two lights, the day 

and the lamplight ; 
Yet how grand is the winter ! How spotless the 

snow is, and perfect ! " 

Thus spake Elizabeth Haddon at nightfall to 

Hannah the housemaid, 
As in the farm-house kitchen, that served for 

kitchen and parlor, 
By the window she sat with her work, and looked 

on a landscape 
White as the great white sheet that Peter saw in 

his vision, 
By the four corners let down and descending out 

of the heavens. 
Covered with snow were the forests of pine, and 

the fields and the meadows. 
Nothing was dark but the sky, and the distant 

Delaware flowing 
Down from its native hills, a peaceful and boun- 
tiful river. 

Then with a smile on her lips made answer 

Hannah the housemaid : 
" Beautiful Winter ! yea, the winter is beautiful, 

surely, 
If one could only walk like a fly with one's feet 

on the ceiling . 
But the great Delaware River is not like the 

Thames, as we saw it 
Out of our upper windows in Rotherhithe Street 

in the Borough, 
Crowded with masts and sails of vessels coming 

and going ; 
Here there is nothing but pines, with patches of 

snow on their branches. 
There is snow in the air, and see ! it is falling al- 
ready ; 
All the roads will be blocked, and I pity Joseph 

to morrow, 
Breaking his way through the drifts, with his 

sled and oxen ; and then, too, 
How in all the world shall we get to Meeting on 

First-Day ? " 

But Elizabeth checked her, and answered, 

mildly reproving : 
" Surely the Lord will provide ; for unto the snow 

he sayeth, 
Be thou on the earth, the good Lord sayeth ; he is 

it 
Giveth snow like wool, like ashes scatters the 

hoar-frost. 1 ' 
So she folded her work and laid it away in her 

basket. 

Meanwhile Hannah the housemaid had closed 
and fastened the shutters, 

Spread the cloth, and lighted the lamp on the 
table, and placed there 

Plates and cups from the dresser, the brown rye 
loaf, and the butter 

Fresh from the dairy, and then, protecting her 
hand with a holder, 

Took from the crane in the chimney the steaming 
and simmering kettle, 

Poised it aloft in the air, and filled up the earthen 
teapot. 

Made in Delft, and adorned with quaint and won- 
derful figure. 

Then Elizabeth said, " Lo ! Joseph is long on 

his errand. 
I have sent him away with a hamper of food and 

of clothing 
For the poor in the village. A good lad and 

cheerful is Joseph ; 
In the right place is his heart, and his hand is 

ready and willing. " 

15 



Thus in praise of her servant she spake, and 
Hannah the housemaid 

Laughed with her eyes, as she listened, but gov- 
erned her tongue, and was silent, 

While her mistress went on : " The Louse is far 
from the village ; 

We should be lonely here, were it not for Friends 
that in passing 

Sometimes tarry o'ernight, and make us glad by 
their coming." 

Thereupon answered Hannah the housemaid, 
the thrifty, the frugal : 
i "Yea, they come and they tarry, as if thy house 

were a tavern ; 
j Open to all are its doors, and they come and go 
like the pigeons 
In and out of the holes of the pigeon-house over 

the hajdoft. 
Cooing and smoothing their feathers and basking 
themselves in the sunshine." 

But in meekness of spirit, and calmh", Eliza- 
beth answered : 
" All I have is the Lord's, not mine to give or 

withhold it ; 
! I but distribute his gifts to the poor, and to 

those of his people 
Who in journeyings often surrender their lives to 

his service. 
His, not mine, are the gifts, and only so far can 

I make them 
Mine, as in giving I add my heart to whatever is 

given. 
Therefore my excellent father first built this 

house in the clearing ; 
Though he came not himself, 1 came ; for the 

Lord was my guidance, 
Leading me here for this service. We must not 

grudge, then, to others 
Ever the cup of cold water, or crumbs that fail 

from our table." 

Thus rebuked, for a season was silent the peni- 
tent housemaid ; 

And Elizabeth said in tones even sweeter and 
softer : 

"Dost thou remember, Hannah, the great May- 
meeting in London. 

When I was still a child, how we sat in the silent 
assembly, 

Waiting upon the Lord in patient and passive 
submission ? 

No one spake, till at length a young man, a stran- 
ger, John Estaugh, 

Moved by the Spirit, rose, as if he were John the 
Apostle, 

Speaking such words of power that they bowed 
our hearts, as a strong wind 

Bends the grass of the fields, or grain that is ripe 
for the sickle. 

Thoughts of him to-day have been oft borne in- 
ward upon me, 

Wherefore I do not know ; but strong is the feel- 
ing within me 

That once more I shall see a face I have never 
forgotteD." 



H. 



E'ex as she spake they heard the musical jangle 
of sleigh-bells, 

First far off, with a dreamy sound and faint in 
the distance, 

Then growing nearer and louder, and turning into 
the farmyard, 

Till it stopped at the door, with sudden creaking 
of runners. 

Then there were voices heard as of two men talk- 
ing together, 



226 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



And to herself, as she listened, upbraiding said 

Hannah the housemaid, 
"It is Joseph come back, and I wonder what 

stranger is with him." 

Down from its nail she took and lighted the 

great tin lantern 
Pierced with holes, and round, and roofed like the 

• top of a lighthouse, 
And went forth to receive the coming guest at 

the doorway, 
Casting into the dark a network of glimmer and 

shadow 
Over the falling snow, the yellow sleigh, and the 

horses, 
And the forms of men, snow-covered, looming 

gigantic. 
Then giving Joseph the lantern, she entered the 

house with the stranger. 
Youthful he was and tall, and his cheeks aglow 

with the night air ; 
And as he entered, Elizabeth rose, and, going to 

meet him, 
As if an unseen power had announced and pre- 
ceded his presence, 
And he had come as one whose coming had long 

been expected, 
Quietly gave him her hand, and said, " Thou art 

welcome, John Estaugh." 
And the stranger replied, with staid and quiet 

behavior, 
" Dost thou remember me still, Elizabeth ? Af- 
ter so many 
Years have passed, it seemeth a wonderful thing 

that I find thee. 
Surely the hand of the Lord conducted me here 

to thy threshold. 
For as I journeyed along, and pondered alone and 

in silence 
On his ways, that are past finding out, I saw in 

the snow-mist, 
Seemingly weary with travel, a wayfarer, who by 

the wayside 
Paused and waited. Forthwith I remembered 

Queen Candace's eunuch, 
How on the way that goes down from Jerusalem 

unto Gaza, 
Reading Esaias the Prophet, he journeyed, and 

spake unto Philip, 
Praying him to come up and sit in his chariot 

with him. 
So I greeted the man, and he mounted the sledge 

beside me, 
And as we talked on the way he told me of thee 

and thy homestead, 
How, being led by the light of the Spirit, that 

never deceiveth, 
Full of zeal for the work of the Lord, thou hadst 

come to this country. 
And I remembered thy name, and thy father and 

mother in England, 
And on my journey have stopped to see thee, 

Elizabeth Haddon, 
Wishing to strengthsn thy hand in the labors of 

love thou arb doing." 

And Elizabeth answered with confident voice, 

and serenely 
Looking into his face with her innocent ej^es as 

she answered, 
" Surely the hand of the Lord is in it ; his Spirit 

hath led thee 
Out of the darkness and storm to the light and 

peace of my fireside." 

Then, with stamping of feet, the door was 
opened, and Joseph 

Entered, bearing the lantern, and, carefully blow- 
ing the light out, 

Hung it up on its nail, and all sat down to their 
supper ; 



For underneath that roof was no distinction of 

persons, 
But one family only, one heart, one hearth, and 

one household. 



When the supper was ended they drew their 

chairs to the fireplace, 
Spacious, open-hearted, profuse of flame and of 

firewood, 
Lord of forests unfelled, and not a gleaner of 

fagots, 
Spreading its arms to embrace with inexhaustible 

bounty 
All who fled from the cold, exultant, laughing at 

winter ! 
Only Hannah the housemaid was busy in clearing 

the table, 
Coming and going, and bustling about in closet 

and chamber. 



* Then Elizabeth told her story again to John 

Estaugh, 
Going far back to the past, to the early days of 

her childhood ; 
How she had waited and watched, in all her 

doubts and besetments 
Comforted with the extendings and holy, sweet 

inflowings 
Of the spirit of love, till the voice imperative 

sounded, 
And she obeyed the voice, and cast in her lot with 

her people 
Here in the desert land, and God would provide 

for the issue. 



Meanwhile Joseph sat with folded hands, and 

demurely 
Listened, or seemed to listen, and in the silence 

that followed 
Nothing was heard for a while but the step of 

Hannah the housemaid 
Walking the floor overhead, and setting the 

chambers in order. 
And Elizabeth said, with a smile of compassion, 

' l The maiden 
Hath a light heart in her breast, but her feet are 

heavy and awkward. " 
Inwardly Joseph laughed, but governed his 

tongue, and was silent. 



Then came the hour of sleep, death's counter- 
feit, nightly rehearsal 

Of the great Silent Assembly, the Meeting of 
shadows, where no man 

Speaketh, but all are still, and the peace and rest 
are unbroken ! 

Silently over that house the blessing of slumber 
descended. 

But when the morning dawned, and the sun up- 
rose in his splendor, 

Breaking his way through clouds that encum- 
bered his path in the heavens, 

Joseph was seen with his sled and oxen breaking 
a pathway 

Through the drifts of snow ; the horses already 
were harnessed, 

And John Estaugh was standing and taking leave 
at the threshold, 

Saying that he 'should return at the Meeting in 
May ; while above them 

Hannah the housemaid, the homely, was looking 
out of the attic, 

Laughing aloud at Joseph, then suddenly closing 
the casement, 

As the bird in a cuckoo-clock peeps out of its 
window, 

Then disappears again, and closes the shutter be- 
hind it. 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



227 



III. 



Now was the winter gone, and the snow 

Robin the Redbreast, 
Boasted on bnsh and tree it was he, it was he and j 

no other 
That had covered with leaves the Babes in the 

Wood, and blithely 
All the birds sang with him, and little cared for 

his boasting, 
Or for his Babes in the Wood, or the Cruel Uncle, 

and only 
Sang for the mates they had chosen, and cared 

for the ne&t3 they were building. 
With them, but more sedately and meekly, Eliza- 

beth Haddon 
Sang in her inmost heart, but her lips were silent 

and songless. 
Thus came the lovely spring with a rush of bios- i 

soms and music. 
Flooding the earth with flowers, and the air with 

melodies vernal. 



Of my own heart awhile, and listen and wait for 
his guidance." 



and 



Then Elizabeth said, not troubled nor wounded 

in spirit, 
" So is it best, John Estaugh. We will not speak 

of it further. 
It hath been laid upon me to tell thee this, for to- 
morrow 
Thou art going away, across the sea, and I know 

not 
When I shall see thee more ; but if the Lord hath 

decreed it. 
Thou wilt return again to seek me here and to 

lind me. 1 ' 
And they rode onward in silence, and entered the 

town with the oth-r.s. 



IV. 



Ships that pass in tho night, and speak each 
other in passing, 

Then it came to pass, one pleasant morning, ' Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the 
that slowly darkness ; 

Up the road there came a cavalcade, as of pil- So on the ocean of life we pass and speak one 

grims, another, 

Men and women, wending their way to the Quar- Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and 



terly Meeting 
In the neighboring town ; and with them came 

riding John Estaugh. 
At Elizabeth's door they stopped to rest, and 

alighting 
Tasted the currant wine, and the bread of rye, 

and the honey 
Brought from the hives, that stood by the sunny 

wall of the garden ; 
Then remounted their horses, refreshed, and con- 
tinued their journey, 
And Elizabeth with them, and Joseph, and Han- 
nah the housemaid. 
But, as they started, Elizabeth lingered a little, ! 

and leaning 
Over her horse's neck, in a whisper said to John j 

Estaugh : 
" Tarry awhile behind, for I have something to 

tell thee. 
Not to be spoken lightly, nor in the presence of 

others ; 
Them it concerneth not, only thee and me it con- 

cerneth. " 
And they rode slowly along through the woods, j 

conversing together. 
It was a pleasure to breathe the fragrant air of 

the forest ; 
It was a pleasure to live on that bright and happy 

May morning ! 



a silence. 

Now went on as of old the quiet life of the 

homestead. 
Patient and unrepining Elizabeth labored, in all 

things 
Mindful not of herself, but bearing the burdens 

of others, 
Always thoughtful and kind and untroubled ; and 

Hanmh the housemaid 
Diligent, early and late, and rosy with washing 

and scouring, 
Still as of old disparaged the eminent merits of 

Joseph, 
And was at times reproved for her light and 

frothy behavior. 
For her shy. looks, and her careless words, and 

her evil surmisiugs, 
Being pressed down somewhat, like a cart with 

sheaves overladen, 
As she would sometimes say to Joseph, quoting 

the Scriptures. 



Meanwhile John Estaugh departed across the 
sea, and departing 
Carried hid in his heart a secret sacred and pre- 
cious, 
Filling its chambers with fragrance, and seeming 
to him in its sweetness 

Then Elizabeth said, though still with a certain j Mary's ointment of spikenard, that filled all the 
reluctance house with its odor. 

As if impelled to reveal a secret she fain would ! ° lost days of delight that are wasted in doubt- 
have guarded : I nig and waiting ! 
" I will no longer conceal what is laid upon me to I ° lost : hou f and , da >' s m wmch we mi S ht have 

tell thee ■ I o een na PPY ■ 

I have received from the Lord a charge to love | But th . e % ht shone at last < and glided his waver- 
thee, John Estaugh." , , m S footsteps, ... 

! And at last came the voice, imperative, question- 



less, certain. 

Then John Estaugh came back o'er the sea for 
the gift that was offered, 



And John Estaugh made answer, surprised by 
the words she had spoken, 
"Pleasant to me are thy converse, thy ways, thy 

meekness of spirit ; 
Pleasant thy frankness of speech, and thy soul's ! Better than houses and lands, the gift of a 

immaculate whiteness, woman's affection. 

Love without dissimulation, a holy and inward : And on the First-Day that followed, he rose hr 

the Silent Assembly, 
Holding in his strong hand a hand that trembled 

a little. 
Promising to be kind and true and faithful in all 
things. 



adorning. 

But I have yet no light to lead me, no voice to 
direct me. 

When the Lord's work is done, and the toil and 
the labor completed 

He hath appointed to me, I will gather into the ! Such were the marriage-rites of John and Eliza- 
stillness | beth Estaugh. 



228 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



And not otherwise Joseph, the honest, the dili- 
gent servant, 

Sped in his bashful -wooing with homely Hannah 
the housemaid ; 

For when he asked her the question, she answered, 
kk Nay ; " and then added : 

" But thee may make believe, and see what will 
come of it, Joseph." 



INTERLUDE. 

" A pleasant and a winsome tale," 

The Student said, "though somewhat pale 

And quiet in its coloring, 

As if it caught its tone and air 

From the gray suits that Quakers wear ; 

Yet worthy of some German bard, 

Hebel, or Voss, or Eberhard, 

Who love of humble themes to sing, 

In humble verse ; but no more true 

Than was the tale I told to you. " 

The Theologian made reply, 

And with some warmth, i ' That I deny ; 

'Tis no invention of my own. 

But something well and widely known 

To readers of a riper age, 

Writ by the skilful hand that wrote 

The Indian tale of Hobomok, 

And Philothea's classic page. 

I found it like a waif afloat, 

Or dulse uprooted from its rock, 

On the swift tides that ebb and flow 

In daily papers, and at flood 

Bear freighted vessels to and fro, 

But later, when the ebb is low, 

Leave a long waste of sand and mud." 

" It matters little," quoth the Jew ; 
"The cloak of truth is lined with lies, 
Sayeth some proverb old and wise ; 
And Love is master of all arts, 
And puts it into human hearts 
The strangest things to say and do." 

And here the controversy closed 

Abruptly, ere 't was well begun ; 

For the Sicilian interposed 

With u Lordlings, listen, every one 

That listen may, unto a tale 

That 's merrier than the nightingale ; 

A tale that cannot boast, forsooth, 

A single rag or shred of truth ; 

That does not leave the mind in doubt 

As to the with it or without ; 

A naked falsehood and absurd 

As mortal ever told or heard. 

Therefore I tell it ; or, maybe. 

Simply because it pleases me." 



THE SICILIAN'S TALE. 

THE MONK OF CASAL-MAGGIORE. 

Once on a time, some centuries ago, 
In the hot sunshine two Franciscan friars 

Wended their weary way with footsteps slow 
Back to their convent, whose white walls and 
spires 

Gleamed on the hillside like a patch of snow ; 
Covered with dust they were, and torn by briers, 

And bore like sumpter-mules upon their backs 

The badge of poverty, their beggar's sacks. 

The first was Brother Anthony, a spare 

And silent man, with pailid cheeks and thin, 

Much given to vigils, penance, fasting, prayer, 
Solemn and gray, and worn with discipline, 

As if his body but white ashes were, 

Heaped on the living coals that glowed within ; 



A simple monk, like many of his day, 
Whose instinct was to listen and obey. 

A different man was Brother Timothy, 

Of larger mould and of a coarser paste ; 
A rubic undand stalwart monk was he, 

Broad in the shoulders, broader in the waist, 
I Who often filled the dull refectory 

With noise by which the convent was disgraced. 
But to the mass-book gave but little heed, " 
j By reason he had never learned to read. 

! Now, as they passed the outskirts of a wood, 

They saw, with mingled pleasure and surprise, 
j Fast tethered to a tree an ass, that stood 

Lazily winking his large, limpid eyes. 
I The farmer Gilbert of that neighborhood 
His owner was, who, looking for supplies 
Of fagots, deeper in the wood had strayed, 
Leaving his beast to ponder in the shade. 

As soon as Brother Timothy espied 

The patient animal, he said : " Good-lack ! 

Thus for our needs doth Providence provide ; 
We'll lay our wallets on the creature's back." 
i This being done, he leisurely untied 

From head and neck the halter of the jack, 

And put it round his own, and to the tree 

Stood tethered fast as if the ass were he. 

And, bursting forth into a merry laugh, 
He cried to Brother Anthony : "Away ! 

And drive the ass before you with your staff; 
And when you reach the convent you may say 

You left me at a farm, half tired and half 
111 with a fever, for a night and day, 

And that the farmer lent this ass to bear 

Our wallets, that are heavy with good fare." 

Now Brother Anthony, who knew the pranks 
Of Brother Timothy, would not persuade 

Or reason with him on his quirks and cranks, 
But, being obedient, silently obeyed ; 

And, smiting with his staff the ass's flanks, 
Drove him before him over hill and glade, 

Safe with his provend to the convent gate, 

Leaving poor Brother Timothy to his fate. 

Then Gilbert, laden with fagots for his fire, 
Forth issued from the wood, and stood aghast 

To see the ponderous body of the friar 

Standing where he had left his donkey last. 

Trembling he stood, and dared not venture nigher, 
But stared, and gaped, and crossed himself full 
fast ; 

For, being credulous and of little wit, 

He thought it was some demon from the pit. 

While speechless and bewildered thus he gazed, 
And dropped his load of fagots on the ground, 

Quoth Brother Timothy : "Be not amazed 
That where you left a donkey should be found 

A poor Franciscan friar, half-starved and cfazed, 
Standing demure and with a halter bound ; 

But set me free, and hear the piteous story 

Of Brother Timothy of Casal-Maggiore. 

"lama sinful man, although you see 
I wear the consecrated cowl and cape ; 

You never owned an ass, but you owned me, 
Changed and transformed from my own natural 
shape 

All for the deadly sin of gluttony, 

From which I could not otherwise escape, 

Than by this penance, dieting on grass, 

And being worked and beaten as an ass. 

" Think of the ignominy I endured ; 

Think of the miserable life I led, 
The toil and blows to which I was inured, 

My wretched lodging in a windy shed, 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 



229 



My scanty fare so grudgingly procured, 

The damp and musty straw that formed my bed ! 
But, having done this penance for my sins, 
My life as man and monk again begins. " 

The simple Gilbert, hearing words like these, 
Was conscience-stricken, and fell down apace 

Before the friar upon his bended knees, 

And with a suppliant voice implored his grace ; 

And the good monk, now very much at ease, 
Granted him pardon with a smiling face, 

Nor could refuse to be that night his guest, 

It being late, and he in need of rest. 

Upon a hillside, where the olive thrives. 

With figures painted on its whitewashed walls, 
The cottage stood ; and near the humming hives 

Made murmurs as of far-off water-falls ; 
A place where those who love secluded lives 

Might live content, and, free from noise and 
brawls, 
Like Claudian's Old Man of Verona here 
Measure by fruits the slow-revolving year. 

And, coming to this cottage of content, 

They found his children, and the buxom wench 

His wife, Dame Cicely, and his father, bent 
With years and labor, seated on a bench, 

Repeating over some obscure event 

In the old wars of Milanese and French ; 

All welcomed the Franciscan, with a sense 

Of sacred awe and humble reverence. 

When Gilbert told them what had come to pass, 
How beyond question, cavil, or surmise, 

Good Brother Timothy had been their ass, 

You should have seen the wonder in their eyes ; 

You should have heard them cry, " Alas ! alas ! " 
Have heard their lamentations and their sighs ! 

For all believed the story, and began 

To see a saint in this afflicted man. 

Forthwith there was prepared a grand repast, 

To satisfy the craving of the friar 
After so rigid and prolonged a fast ; 

The bustling housewife stirred the kitchen fire ; 
Then her two favorite pullets and her last 

Were put to death, at her express desire, 
And served up with a salad in a bowl, 
And flasks of country wine to crown the whole. 

It would net be believed should I repeat 
How hungry Brother Timothy appeared ; 

It was a pleasure but to see him eat. 

His white teeth flashing through his russet 
beard, 

His face aglow and flushed with wine and meat, 
His roguish eyes that rolled and laughed and 
leered ! 

Lord ! how he drank the blood-red country wine 

As if the village vintage were divine ! 

And all the while he talked without surcease, 
And told his merry tales with jovial glee 

That never flagged, but rather did increase, 
And laughed aloud as if insane were he. 

And wagged his red beard, matted like a fleece, 
And cast such glances at Dame Cicely 

That Gilbert now grew angiy with his guest, 

And thus in words his rising wrath expressed. 

" Good father," said he, "easily we see 
How needful in some persons, and how right, 
Mortification of the flesh may be. 

The indulgence you have given it to night, 
After long penance, clearly proves to me 

Your strength against temptation is but slight. 
And shows the dreadful peril you are in 
Of a relapse into your deadly sin. 



"To-morrow morning, with the rising sun, 
Go back unto your convent, nor refrain 

From fasting and scourging, for you run 
Great danger to become an ass again, 

Since monkish flesh and asinine are one ; 
Therefore be wise, nor longer here remain, 

Unless you wish the scourge should be applied 

By other hands, that will not spare your hide." 

When this the monk had heard, his color fled 
And then returned like lightning in the air, 

Till he was all one blush from foot to head, 
And even the bald spot in his russet hair 

Turned from its usual pallor to bright red ! 
The old man was asleep upon his chair. 

Then all retired, and sank into the deep 

And helpless imbecility of sleep. 

They slept until the dawn of day drew near, 
Till the cock should have crowed, but did not 
crow, 

For they had slain the shining chanticleer 
And eaten him for supper, as you know. 

The monk was up betimes and of good cheer, 
And, having breakfasted, made haste to go, 

As if he heard the distant matin bell, 

And had but little time to say farewell. 



Fresh 



the morning as the breath of kine : 



Odors of herbs commingled with the sweet 
Balsamic exhalations of the pine ; 

A haze was in the air presaging heat ; 
Uprose the sun above the Apennine, 

And all the misty valleys at its feet 
Were full of the delirious song of birds. 
Voices of men, and bells, and low of herds. 

All this to Brother Timothy was naught ; 

He did not care for scenery, nor here 
His busy fancy found the thing it sought ; 

But when he saw the convent walls appear, 
And smoke from kitchen chimneys upward 
caught 

And whirled aloft into the atmosphere. 
He quickened his slow footsteps, like a beast 
That scents the stable a league off at least. 

And as he entered through the convent gate 
He saw there in the court the ass, who stood 

Twirling his ears about, and seemed to wait, 
Just as he found him waiting in the wood ; 

And told the Prior that, to alleviate 
The daily labors of the brotherhood. 

The owner, being a man of means and thrift, 

Bestowed him on the convent as a gift. 

And thereupon the Prior for many days 
Revolved this serious matter in his mind, 

And turned it over many different ways, 
Hoping that some safe issue he might find ; 

But stood in fear of what the world would say, 
If he accepted presents of this kind. 

Employing beasts of burden for the packs 

That lazy monks should carry on their backs. 



Then, to avoid all scandal of the sort, 
And stop the mouth of cavil, he decreed 

That he would cut the tedious matter short, 
And sell the ass with all convenient speed, 

Thus saving the expense of his support, 
And hoarding something for a time of need. 

So he despatched him to the neighboring Fair, 

And freed himself from cumber and from care. 



It happened now by chance, as some might say, 
Others perhaps would call it destiny, 

Gilbert was at the Fair; and heard a bray, • 
And nearer came, and saw that it was he, 



230 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



And whispered in his e^r, " Ah, lackaday ! 

Good father, the rebellious flesh, 1 see, 
Has changed you back into an ass again, 
And all my admonitions were in vain." 

The ass, who felt this breathing in his ear, 

Did not turn round to look, but shook his head 

As if he were not pleased these words to hear, 
And contradicted all that had been said, 

And this made Gilbert cry in voice more clear, 
u I know you well ; your hah" is russet-red ; 

Do not deny it; for you are the same 

Franciscan friar, and Timothy by name." 

The ass, though now the secret had come out. 

Was obstinate, and shook his head again ; 
Until a crowd was gathered round about 

To hear this dialogue between the twain ; 
And raised their voices in a noisy shout 

When Gilbert tried to make the matter plain, 
And flouted him and mocked him all day long 
With laughter and with jibes and scrapes of song. 

" If this be Brother Timothy," they cried, 

"Buy him, and feed him on the tenderest 
grass ; 

Thou canst not do too much for one so tried 
As to be twice transformed into an ass. " 

So simple Gilbert bought him, and untied 
His halter, and o'er mountain and morass, 

He led him homeward, talking as he went 

Of good behavior and a mind content. 

The children saw them coming, and advanced, 
Shouting with joy, and hung about his neck, — 

Not Gilbert's, but the ass's, — round him danced, 
And wove green garlands wherewithal to deck 

His sacred person ; for again it chanced ' 

Their childish feelings, without rein or check, 

Could not discriminate in any way 

A donkey from a friar of Orders Gray. 



" O Brother Timothy," the children said, 
"■You have come back to us just as before ; 

We were afraid, and thought that you were dead, 
And we should never see you any more." 

And then they kissed the white star on his head, 
That like a birth-mark or a badge he wore, 

And patted him upon the neck and face, 

And said a thousand things with childish grace. 

Then cef orward and forever he was known 
As Brother Timothy, and led alway 

A life of luxury, till he had grown 

Ungrateful, being stuffed with corn and hay, 

And very vicious. Then in angry tone, 

Rousing himself, poor Gilbert said one day, 

" When simple kindness is misunderstood 

A little flagellation may do good." 

His many vices need not here be told ; 

Among them was a habit that he had 
Of flinging up his heels at young and old, 

Breaking his halter, running off like mad 
O'er pasture-lands and meadow, wood and wold, 

And other misdemeanors quite as bad* ; 
But worst of all was breaking from his shed 
At night, and ravaging the cabbage-bed. 

So Brother Timothy went back once more 
To his old life of labor and distress : 

Was beaten worse than he had been before. 
And now, instead of comfort and caress, 

Came labors manifold and trials sore ; 

And as his toils increased his food grew less 

Until at last the great consoler. Death, 

Ended his many sufferings with his breath. 



Great was the lamentation when he died ; 

And mainly that he died impenitent ; 
Dame Cicely bewailed, the children cried, 

The old man still remembered the event 
In the French war, and Gilbert magnified 

His many virtues, as he came and went, 
And said : ''Heaven pardon Brother Timothy, 
And keep us from the sin of gluttony." 



INTERLUDE. 

41 Signor Luigi," said the Jew. 
When the Sicilian's tale was told, 
; ' The were-wolf is a legend old, 
But the were-ass is something new, 
And yet for one I think it true. 
The days of wonder have not ceased ; 
If there are beasts in forms of men, 
As sure it happens now and then, 
Why may not man become a beast, 
In way of punishment at least V 

" But this I will not now discuss ; 

I leave the theme, that we may thus 

Remain within the realm of song. 

The story that I told before, 

Though not acceptable to all, 

At least you did not find too long. 

I beg you, let me try again, 

With something in a different vein, 

Before you bid the curtain fall. 

Meanwhile keep watch upon the door, 

Nor let the Landlord leave his chair, 

Lest he should vanish into air, 

And thus elude our search once more." 

Thus saying, fromhis lips he blew 
A little cloud of perfumed breath, 
And then, as if it were a clew 
To lead his footsteps safely through, 
Began his tale as folioweth. 



THE SPANISH JEW'S SECOND TALE. 

SCANDERBEG. 

The battle is fought and won 
By King Ladislaus the Hun, 
In fire of hell and death's frost, 
On the day of Pentecost. 
And in route before his path 
From the field of battle red 
Flee all that are not dead 
Of the army of Amurath. 

In the darkness of the night 
Iskander, the pride and boast 
Of that mighty Othman host, 
With his routed Turks, takes flight 
From the battle fought and lost 
On the day of Pentecost ; 
Leaving behind him dead 
The army of Amurath, 
The vanguard as it led, 
The rearguard as it fled, 
Mown down in the bloody swath 
Of the battle's aftermath. 

But he cared not for Hospodars, 
Nor for Baron or Voivode, 
As on through the night he rode 
And gazed at the fateful stars, 
That were shining overhead ; 
But smote his steed with his staff, 
And smiled to himself, and said : 
" This is the time to laugh." 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



231 



In the middle of the night, 

In a halt of the hurrying flight, 

There came a Scribe of the King 

Wearing his signet ring, 

And said in a voice severe ; 

" This is the first dark blot, 

On thy name, George Castriot ! 

Alas ! why art thou here, 

And the army of Amurath slain, 

And left on the battle plain ? " 

And Iskander answered and said : 
" Thsy lie on the bloody sod 
By the hoofs of horses trod ; 
Bat this was the decree 
Of the watchers overhead ; 
For the war belongeth to God, 
And in battle who are we, 
Who are we, that shall withstand 
The wind of his lifted hand V " 

Then he bade them bind with chains 
This man of books and brains; 
And the Scribe said : " What misdeed 
Have I done, that, without need, 
Thou doest to me this thing ? " 
And Iskander answering 
Said unto him : " Not one 
Misdeed to me hast thou done ; 
But for fear that thou shouldst run 
And hide thyself from me, 
Have I done this unto thee. 

"Now write me a writing, O Scribe, 

And a blessing be on thy tribe ! 

A writing sealed with thy ring, 

To Kin^ Amurath's Pasha 

In the city of Croia, 

The city moated and walled, 

That he surrender the same 

In the name of my master, the King ; 

For what is writ in his name 

Can never be recalled." 

And the Scribe bowed low in dread, 

And unto Iskander said : 

" Allah is great and just. 

But we are as ashes and dust ; 

How shall I do this thing, 

When I know that my guilty head 

Will be forfeit to the King ?" 

Then swift as a shooting star 

The curved and shining blade 

Of Iskander's scimetar 

From its sheath, with jewels bright, 

Shot, as he thundered : " Write ! " 

And the trembling Scribe obeyed, 

And wrote in the fitful glare 

Of the bivouac fire apart, 

With the chill of the midnight air 

On his forehead white and bare, 

And the chill of death in his heart. 

Then again Iskander cried : 
" Now follow whither I ride, 
For here thou must not stay. 
Thou shalt be as my dearest friend, 
And honors without end 
Shall surround thee on every side, 
And attend thee night and day." 
But the sullen Scribe replied : 
" Our pathways here divide ; 
Mine leadeth not thy way." 

And even as he spoke 
Fell a sudden scimetar-stroke, 
When no one else was near ; 
»And the Scribe sank to the ground, 
As a stone, pushed from the brink 
Of a black pool, might sink 
With a sob, and disappear ; 



And no one saw the deed ; 

And in the stillness around 

No sound was he.ird but the sound 

Of the hoofs of Iskander's steed, 

As forward he sprang with a bound. 

Then onward he rode and afar, 
With scarce three hundred men, 
Through river and forest and fen, 
O'er the mountains of Argentar ; 
And his heart was merry within, 
When he crossed the river Drin, 
And saw in the gleam of the morn 
The White Castie Ak-Hissar, 
The city Croia called, 
The city moated and walled, 
The city where he was born, — 
And above it the morning star. 

Then his trumpeters in the van 
On their silver bugles blew, 
And in crowds about him ran 
Albanian and Turkoman, 
That the sound together drew. 
And he feasted with his friends, 
And when they were warm with wine, 
He said : " O friends of mine, 
Behold what fortune sends, 
And what the fates design ! 
King Amurath commands 
That my father's wide domain, 
This city and all its lands, 
Shall be given to me again." 

Then to the Castle White 
He rode in regal state, 
And entered in at the gate 
In all his arms bedight, 
And gave to the Pasha 
Who ruled in Croia 
The writing of the King, 
Sealed with his signet ring. 
And the Pasha bowed his head, 
And after a silence said : 
" Allah is just and great ! 
I yield to the will divine. 
The city and lands are thine ; 
Who shall contend with fate '? " 

Anon from the castle walls 

The crescent banner falls. 

And the crowd beholds instead, 

Like a portent in the sky, 

Iskander's banner fly, 

The Black Eagle with double head ; 

And a shout ascends on high. 

For men's souls are tired of the Turks, 

And their wicked ways and works, 

That have made of Ak-Hissar 

A city of the plague ; 

And a loud, exultant cry 

That echoes wide and far 

Is : " Long live Scanderbeg ! " 

It Avas thus Iskander came 

Once more unto his own ; 

And the tidings, like the flame 

Of a conflagration blown 

But the winds of summer, ran, 

Till the land was in a blaze, 

And the cities far and near, 

Sayeth Ben Joshua Ben Meir, 

In'his Book of the Words of the Days, 

" Were taken as a man 

Would take the tip of his ear." 



INTERLUDE. 

" Now that is after my own heart," 
The Poet cried; "one understands 



2132 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



Your swarthy iieio iScanderbeg, 
Gauntlet on hand and boot on leg, 
And skilled in every warlike art, 
Hiding through his Albanian lands, 
And following the auspicious star 
That sholie lor him o'er Ak-Hissar. " 

The Theologian added here 

His word of praise not Jess sincere, 

Although he ended with a jibe ; 

' k The hero of romance and song 

Was born," he said, " to right the wrong; 

And I approve ; but all the same 

That bit of treason with the Scribe 

Adds nothing to your hero's fame." 

The Student praised the good old times, 
And liked the canter of the rhymes, 
That had a hoof beat in their sound ; 
But longed some further word to hear 
Of the old chronicle Ben Meir, 
And where his volume might be found. 
The tall Musician walked the room 
With folded arms and gleaming eyes, 
As if he saw the Vikings rise, 
Gigantic shadows in the gloom ; 
And much he talked of their emprise, 
And meteors seen in Northern skies, 
And Heimdal's horn, and day of doom. 
But the Sicilian laughed again ; 
"This is the time to laugh," he said, 
For the whole story he well knew 
Was an invention of the Jew, 
Spun from the cobwebs in his brain, 
And of the same bright scarlet thread 
As was the Tale of Kambalu. 

Only the Landlord spake no word ; 
'T was doubtful whether he had heard 
The tale at all, so full of care 
Was he of his impending fate, 
That, like the sword of Damocles, 
Above his head hung blank and bare, 
Suspended by a single hair, 
So that he could not sit at ease, 
But sighed and looked disconsolate, 
And shifted restless in his chair, 
Revolving how he might evade 
The blow of the descending blade. 

The Student came to his relief 
By saying in his easy way 
To the Musician : " Calm your grief, 
My fair Apollo of the North, 
Balder the Beautiful and so forth ; 
Although your magic lyre or lute 
With broken strings is lying mute, 
Still you can tell some doleful tale 
Of shipwreck in a midnight gale, 
Or something of the kind to suit 
The mood that we are in to-night 
For what is marvellous and strange ; 
So give your nimble fancy range, 
And we will follow in its flight. " 

But the Musician shook his head ; 
kl No tale I tell to-night," he said, 
" While my poor instrument lies there. 
Even as a child with vacant stare 
Lies in its little coffin dead." 

Yet, being urged, he said at last : 

"There comes to me out of the Past 

A voice, whose tones are sweet and wild, 

Singing a song almost divine, 

And with a tear in every line ; 

An ancient ballad, that my nurse 

Sang to me when I was a child, 

In accents tender as the verse ; 

And sometimes wept, and sometimes smiled 



While singing it, to see arise 
The look of wonder in my eyes, 
And feel my heart with terror beat. 
This simple ballad I retain 
Clearly imprinted on my brain, 
And as a tale will now repeat. 



THE MUSICIAN'S TALE. 

THE MOTHER'S GHOST. 

Svend Dyking he rideth adown the glade ; 

/ myself was young ! 
There he hath wooed him so winsome a maid ; 

Fair ivords gladden no many a heart. 

Together were they for seven years, 
And together children six were theirs. 

Then came Death abroad through the land, 
And blighted the beautiful lily-wand. 

Svend Dyring he rideth adown the glade, 
And again hath he wooed him another maid. 

He hath wooed him a maid and brought home a 

bride, 
But she was bitter and full of pride. 

When she came driving into the yard, 
There stood the six children weeping so hard. 

There stood the small children with sorrowful 

heart ; 
From before her feet she thrust them apart. 

She gave them neither ale nor bread ; 

" Ye shall suffer hunger and hate," she said. 

She took from them their quilts of blue, 

And said : l * Ye shall lie on the straw we strew." 

She took from them the great waxlight ; 
" Now ye shall lie in the dark at night. " 

In the evening late they cried with cold ; 
The mother heard it under the mould. 

The woman heard it the earth below : 
u To my little children I must go." 

She standeth before the Lord of all : 

" And may I go to my children small ? " 

She prayed him so long, and would not cease, 
Until he bade her depart in peace. 

" At cock-crow thou shalt return again ; 
Longer thou shalt not there remain I " 

She girded up her sorrowful bones, 

And rifted the walls and the marble stones. 

As through the village she flitted by, 
The watch-dogs howled aloud to the sky. 

When she came to the castle gate, 
There stood her eldest daughter in wait. 

' ' Why standest thou here, dear daughter mine ? 
How fares it with brothers and sisters thine ? " 

" Never art thou mother of mine, 
For my mother was both fair and line. 

" My mother was white, with cheeks of red, 
But thou art pale, and like to the dead." 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



233 



" How should I be fair and fine ? 

I have been dead ; pale cheeks are mine. 

" How should I be white and red, 
So long, so long have I been dead 'i " 

When she came in at the chamber door, 
There stood the small children weeping sore. 

One she braided, another she brushed, 
The third she lifted, the fourth she hushed. 

The fifth she took on her lap and pressed, 
As if she would suckle it at her breast. 

Then to her eldest daughter said she, 

Vk Do thou bid Svend Dyring come hither to me." 

Into the chamber when he came 

She spake to him in anger and shame. 

" I left behind me both ale and bread ; 
My children hunger and are not fed. 

" 1 left behind me qu!lts of blue ; 
My children lie on the straw ye strew. 

" I left behind me the great waxlight ; 
My children lie in the dark at night. 

" If I come again unto your hall, 
As cruel a fate shall you befall ! 

" Now crows the cock with feathers red ; 
Back to the earth must all the dead. 

" Now crows the cock with feathers swart; 
The gates of heaven fly wide apart. 

"Now crows the cock with feathers white ; 
I can abide no longer to-night. " 

Whenever they heard the watch-dogs wail, 
They gave the children bread and ale. 

Whenever they heard the watch-dogs bay, 
They feared lest the dead were on their wa". 

Whenever they heard the watch-dogs bark ; 

I myself was young/ 
They feared the dead out there in the dark. 

Fair words gladden so many a heart. 



INTERLUDE. 

Touched by the pathos of these rhymes, 
The Theologian said : " All praise 
Be to the ballads of old times 
And to the bards of simple ways, 
Who walked with Nature hand in hand, 
Whose country was their Holy Land, 
Whose singing robes were homespun brown, 
From looms of their own native town. 
Which they were not ashamed to wear, 
And not of silk or sendal gay, 
Nor decked with fanciful array 
Of cockle-shells from Outre-Mer." 

To whom the Student answered : " Yes ; 

All praise and honor ! I confess 

That bread and ale, home-baked, home-brewed, 

Are wholesome and nutritious food, 

But not enough for all our needs ; 

Poets — the best of them — are birds 

Of passage ; where their instinct leads 

They range abroad for thoughts and Avords, 

And from all climes bring home the seeds 

That germinate in flowers or weeds. 

They are not fowls in barnyards born 

To cackle o'er a grain of corn ; 



And- if you shut the horizon down 
To the small limits of their town, 
What do you but degrade your bard 
Till he at last becomes as one 
Who thinks the all-encircling sun 
Rises and sets in his back yard ? " 

The Theologian said again : 
" It may be so ; yec I maintain 
That what is native still is best, 
And little care I for the rest. 
'T is a long story ; time would fail 
To tell it, and the hour is late ; 
We will not waste it in debate, 
But listen to our Landlord's tale." 

And thus the sword of Damocles 
Descending not by slow degrees, 
But suddenly, on the Landlord fell, 
Who Hushing, and with much demur 
And many vain apologies, 
Plucking up heart, began to tell 
The Rhyme of one Sir Christopher. 



THE LANDLORD'S TALE. 

THE RHYME OF SIR CHRISTOPHER. 

It was Sir Christopher Gardiner, 
Knight of the Holy Sepulchre, 
From Merry England over the sea, 
Who stepped upon this continent 
As if his august presence lent 
A glory to the colony. 

You should have seen him in the street 
Of the little Boston of Winthrop's time, 
His rapier dangling at his feet, 
Doublet and hose and boots complete, 
Prince Rupert hat with ostrich plume, 
Gloves that exhaled a faint perfume, 
Luxuriant curls and air sublime, 
And superior manners now obsolete ! 

He had a way of saying things 

That made one think of courts and kings, 

And lords and ladies of high degree ; 

!So that not having been at court 

Seemed somt tiring very little short 

Of treason or lese-majesty, 

Such an accomplished knight was he. 

His dwelling was just beyond the town, 
At what he called his country-seat ; 
For, careless of Fortune's smile or frown, 
And weary grown of the world and its ways, 
He wished to pass the rest of his days 
In a private life and a calm retreat. 

But a double life was the life he led, 
And, while professing to be in search 
Of a godly course, and willing, he said. 
Nay, anxious to join the Puritan church, 
He made of all this but small account, 
And passed his idle hours instead 
With roystering Morton of Merry Mount, 
That pettifogger from Furnival's Inn. 
Lord of misrule and riot and sin, 
Who looked on the wine when it was red. 

This country-seat was little more 

Than a cabin of logs ; but in front of the door 

A modest flower-bed thickly sown 

With sweet alyssum and columbine 

Made those who saw it at once divine 

The touch of some other hand than his own. 

And first it was whispered, and then it was 

known, 
That he in secret was harboring there 



234 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



A little lady with golden hair, They wanted the bird alive, not dead ; 

Whom he called his cousin, but whom he had wed Then he followed him whithersoever he fled, 

In the Italian manner, as men said, Through forest and field, and hunted him down, 

And great was the scandal everywhere. And brought him prisoner into the town. 



But worse than this was the vague surmise, 

Though none could vouch for it or aver, 

That the Knight of the Holy Sepulchre 

Was only a Papist in disguise ; 

And the more to imbitter their bitter lives, 

And the more to trouble the public mind, 

Came letters from England, from two other wives, 

Whom he had carelessly leit behind ; 

Both of them letters of such a kind 

As made the governor hold his breath ; 

The one imploring him straight to send 

The husband home, that he might amend ; 

The other asking his instant death, 

As the only way to make an end. 

The wary governor deemed it right, 

When all this wickedness was revealed, 

To send his warrant signed and staled, 

And take the body of the knight. 

Armed with this mighty instrument, 

The marshal, mounting his gallant steed, 

Bode forth from town at the top of his speed, 

And followed by all his bailiff's bold, 

As if on high achievement bent, 

To storm some castle or stronghold, 

Challenge the warders on the wall, 

And seize in his ancestral hall 

A robber -baron grim and old. 

But when through all the dust and heat 

He came to Sir Christopher's country-seat, 

No knight he found, no warder there, 

But the little lady with golden hair, 

Who was gathering in the bright sunshine, 

The sweet alyssum and columbine ; 

While gallant Sir Christopher, all so gay, 

Being forewarned, through the postern gate 

Of his castle wall had tripped away, 

And was keeping a little, holiday 

In the forests, that bounded his estate. 

Then as a trusty squire and true 
The marshal searched the castle through, 
Not crediting what the lady said ; 
Searched from cellar to garret in vain, 
And, finding no knight, came out again 
And arrested, the golden damsel instead, 
And bore her in triumph into the town, 
While from her eyes the tears rolled down 
On the sweet alyssum and columbine, 
That she held in her fingers white and fine. 

The governor's heart was moved to see 

So fair a creature caught within 

The snares of Satan and of sin, 

And read her a little homily 

On the folly and wickedness of the lives 

Of women, half cousins and half wives ; 

But, seeing that naught his words availed, 

He sent her away in a ship that sailed 

For Merry England over the sea, 

To the other two wives in the old countree, 

To search her further, since he had failed 

To come at the heart of the mystery. 

Meanwhile Sir Christopher wandered away 
Through pathless woods for a month and a day, 
Shooting pigeons, and sleeping at night 
With the noble savage, who took delight 
In his feathered hat and his velvet vest, 
His gun and his rapier and the rest. 
But as soon as the noble savage heard 
That a bounty was offered for this gay bird, 
He wanted to slay him out of hand, 
And bring in his beautiful scalp for a show, 
Like the glossy head of a kite or crow, 
Until he was made to understand 



Alas ! it was a rueful sight, 

To see this melancholy knight 

In such a dismal and hapless case ; 

His hat deformed by stain and dent, 

His plumage broken, his doublet rent, 

His beard and flowing locks forlorn, 

Matted, dishevelled, and unshorn, 

His boots with dust and mire besprent ; 

But dignified in his disgrace, 

And wearing an unblushing face. 

And thus before the magistrate 

He stood to hear the doom of fate. 

In vain he strove with wonted ease 

To modify and extenuate 

His evil deeds in church and state, 

For gone was now his power to please ; 

And his pompous words had no more weight 

Than feathers flying in the breeze. 

With suavity equal to his own 

The governor lent a patient ear 

To the speech evasive and highflown, 

In which he endeavored to make clear 

That colonial laws were too severe 

When applied to a gallant cavalier, 

A gentleman born, and so well known, 

And accustomed to move in a higher sphere. 

All this the Puritan governor heard, 

And deigned m answer never a word ; 

But in summary manner shipped away, 
j In a vessel that sailed from Salem bay, 
j This splendid and famous cavalier, 

With his Rupert hat and his popery 
j To Merry England over the sea, 

As being unmeet to inhabit here. 

Thus endeth the Rhyme of Sir Christopher, 
Knight of the Holy Sepulchre, 
The first who furnished this barren land 
With apples of Sodom and ropes of sand. 



FINALE. 

These are the tales those merry guests 
Told to each other, well or ill ; 
Like summer birds that lift their crests 
Above the borders of their nests 
And twitter, and again are still. 

These are the tales, or new or old, 

In idle moments idly told ; 

Flowers of the field with petals thin, 

Lilies that neither toil nor spin, 

And tufts of wayside weeds and gorse 

Hung in the parlor of the inn 

Beneath the sign of the Red Horse. 

And still reluctant to retire, 

The friends sat talking by the fire 

And watched the smouldering embers burn, 

To ashes, and flash up again 

Into a momentary glow, 

Lingering like them when forced to go, 

And going when they would remain ; 

For on the morrow they must turn 

Their faces homeward, and the pain 

Of parting touched with its unrest 

A tender nerve in every breast. 

But sleep at last the victory won ; 
They must be stirring with the sun, 
And drowsily good night they said, 
And went still gossiping to bed, 



FLOWER-DE-LUCE. 



235 



And left the parlor wrapped in gloom. 
The only live thing in the room 
Was the old clock, that in its pace 
Kept time with the revolving spheres 
And constellations in their flight, 
And struck with its uplifted mace 
The dark, unconscious hours of night, 
To senseless and unlistening ears. 



Uprose the sun ; and every guest, 
Uprisen, was soon equipped and dresssd 
For journeying home and city-ward ; 
The old stage-coach was at the door, 
With horses harnessed long before 
The sunshine reached the withered sward 
Beneath the oaks, whose branches hoar 
Murmured : ' ' Farewell f orevermore. ' ' 

11 Farewell !" the portly landlord cried ; 
" Farewell !" the parting guests replied, 



But little thought that nevermore 

Their feet would pass that threshold o'er ; 

That nevermore together there 

Would they assemble, free from care, 

To hear the oaks' mysterious roar, 

And breathe the wholesome country air. 

Where are they now ? What lands and skies 
Paint pictures in their friendly eyes ? 
What hope deludes, what promise cheers, 
What pleasant voices fill their ears ? 
Two are beyond the salt sea waves, 
And three already in their graves. 
Perchance the living still may look 
Into the pages of this book, 
And see the days of long ago 
Floating and fleeting to and fro, 
As in the well-remembered brook 
They saw the inverted landscape gleam, 
And their own faces like a dream 
Look up upon them from below. 



FLO WEE-DE-LUCE, 




FLOWER-DE-LUCE. 



Beautiful lily, dwelling by still rivers, 

Or solitary mere, 
Or where the sluggish meadow-brook delivers 

Its waters to the weir ! 

Thou laughest at the mill, the whir and worry 

Of spindle and of loom, 
And the great wheel that toils amid the hurry 

And rushing of the flume. 



Born in the purple, born to joy and pleasance, 

Thou dost not toil nor spin. 
But makest glad and radiant with thy presence 

The meadow and the lin. 

The Mind blows, and uplifts thy drooping banner, 

And round thee throng and run 
The rushes, the green yeomen of thy manor, 

The outlaws of the sun. 



236 



PALINGENESIS.— THE BRIDGE OF CLOUD. 



The burnished dragon-fly is thine attendant, 

And tilts against the held, 
And down the listed sunbeam rides resplendent 

With steel-blue mail and shield. 

Thou art the Iris, fair among the fairest, 

Who, armed with golden rod 
And winged with the celestial azure, bearest 

The message of some God. 

Thou art the Muse, who far from crowded cities 

Hauntest the sylvan streams, 
Playing on pipes of reed the artless ditties 

That come to us as dreams. 

O flower-de-luce, bloom on, and let the river 

Linger to kiss thy feet ! 
O flower of song, bloom on, and make forever 

The world more fair and sweet. 



PALINGENESIS. 

I lay upon the headland-height, and listened 
To the incessant sobbing of the sea 

In caverns under me, 
And watched the waves, that tossed and fled and 

glistened, 
Until the rolling meadows of amethyst 

Melted away in mist. 

Then suddenly, as one from sleep, I started ; 
For round about me all the sunny capes 

Seemed peopled with the shapes 
Of those whom I had known in days departed 
Apparelled in the loveliness which gleams 

On faces seen in dreams. 

A moment only, and the light and glory 
Faded away, and the disconsolate shore 

Stood lonely as before ; 
And the wild-roses of the promontory 
Around me shuddered in the wind, and shed 

Their petals of pale red. 

There was an old belief that in the embers 
Of all things their primordial form exists, 

And cunning alchemists 
Could re-create the rose with all its members 
From its own ashes, but without the bloom, 

Without the lost perfume. 

Ah me ! what wonder-working, occult science 
Can from the ashes in our hearts once more 

The rose of youth restore ? 
What craft of alchemy can bid defiance 
To time and change, and for a single hour 

Renew this phantom-flower ? 

" O, give me back," I cried, "the vanished 

splendors, 
The breath of morn, and the exultant strife, 

When the swift stream of life 
Bounds o'er its rocky channel, and surrenders 
The pond, with all its lilies, for the leap 

Into the unknown deep ! " 

And the sea answered, with a lamentation, 
Like some old prophet wailing, and it said, 

" Alas ! thy youth is dead ! 
It breathes no more, its heart has no pulsation ; 
In the dark places with the dead of old 

It lies forever cold ! " 

Then said I, ' ' From its consecrated cerements 
I will not drag this sacred dust again, 

Only to give me pain ; 
But, still remembering all the lost endearments 
Go on my way, like one who looks before, 

And turns to weep no more." 



Into what land of harvests, what plantations 
Bright with autumnal foliage and the glow 

Of sunsets burning low, 
Beneath what midnight skies, whose constel- 
lations 
Light up the spacious avenues between 

This w orld and the unseen ! 

Amid what friendly greetings and caresses, 
What households, though not alien, yetr.ot mine, 

What bowers of rest divine ; 
To what temptations in lone wildernesses, 
What famine of the- heart, what pain and loss, 

The bearing of what cross ! 

I do not know ; nor will I vainly question 
Those pages of the mystic book which hold 

The story still untold, 
But without rash conjecture or suggestion 
Turn its last leaves in reverence and good heed, 

Until ' k The End " I read. 



THE BRIDGE OF CLOUD. 

Burn, O evening hearth, and waken 

Pleasant visions, as of old ! 
Though the house by winds be shaken, 

Safe I keep this room of gold ! 

Ah, no longer wizard Fancy 

Builds her castles in the air, 
Luring me by necromancy 

Up the never-ending stair ! 

But, instead, she builds me bridges 

Over many a dark ravine, 
Where beneath the gusty ridges 

Cataracts dash and roar unseen. 

And I cross them, little heeding 
Blast of wind or torrent's roar, 

As I follow the receding 

Footsteps that have gone before. 

Naught avails the imploring gesture, 
Naught avails the cry of pain ! 

When I touch the flying vesture, 
'T is the gray robe of the rain. 

Baffled I return, and, leaning 

O'er the parapets of cloud, 
Watch the mist that intervening 

Wraps the valley in its shroud. ( 

And the sounds of life ascending 
Faintly, vaguely, meet the ear, 

Murmur of bells and voices blending 
With the rush of waters near. 

Well I know what there lies hidden, 
Every tower and town and farm, 

And again the land forbidden 
Reassumes its vanished charm. 

Well I know the secret places, 
And the nests in hedge and tree ; 

At what doors are friendly faces, 
In what hearts are thoughts of me. 

Through the mist and darkness sinking. 

Blowing by wind and beaten by shower, 
Down I fling the thought I 'm thinking, 

Down I toss this Alpine flower. 



HAWTHORNE.— THE WIND OVER THE CHIMNEY. 



237 



HAWTHORNE. 
MAI 23, 18G4. 

How beautiful it was, that one bright day 

In the long week of rain ! 
Though all its splendor could not chase away 

The omnipresent pain. 

The lovely town was white with apple-blooms, 

Anl the great elms o'erhead 
Dark shadows wove on their aerial looms 

Shot through with golden'thread. 

Across the meadows, by the gray old manse, 

The historic river flowed : 
I was as one who wanders in a trance, 

Unconscious of his road. 

The faces of familiar friends seemed strange 

Their voices I could hear. 
And yet the words they uttered seemed to change 

Their meaning to my ear. 

For the one face I looked for was not there, 

The one low voice was mute ; 
Only an unseen presence filled the air, 

And baflled my pursuit. 

Now I look back, and meadow, manse, and stream 

Dimly my thought defines ; 
I only see — a dream within a dream — 

The hill-top hearsed with pines. 

I only hear above his place of rest 

Their tender undertone, 
The infinite longings of a troubled breast, 

The voice so like his own. 

There in seclusion and remote from men 

The wizard hand lies cold, 
Which at its topmost speed let fall the pen, 

And left the tale half told. 

Ah ! who shall lift that wand of magic power, 

And the lost clew regain ? 
The unfinished window in Aladdin's tower 

Unfinished must remain ! 



CHRISTMAS BELLS. 

I heakd the bells on Christmas Day 
Their old, familiar carols play, 

And wild and sweet 

The words repeat 
Of peace on earth, good-will to men ! 

And thought how, as the day had come, 
The belfries of all Christendom 

Had rolled along 

The unbroken song 
Of peace on earth, good-will to men ! 

Till, ringing, singing on its way, 
The world revolved from night to day, 

A voice, a chime, 

A chant sublime 
Of peace on earth, good-will to men ! 

Then from each black, accursed mouth 
The cannon thundered in the South, 

And with the sound 

The carols drowned 
Of peace on earth, good-will tc men ! 

It was as if an earthquake rent 
The hearth-stones of a continent. 



And made forlorn 
The households born 
Of peace on earth, good-will to men ! 

And in despair I bowed my head ; 
" There is no peace on earth," I said ; 

" For hate is strong, 

And mocks the song 
Of peace on earth, good-will to men ! " 

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep 
1 ' God is not dead ; nor doth he sleep ! 

The Wrong shall fail, 

The Right prevail, 
With peace on earth, good-will to men ! " 



THE WIND OVER THE CHIMNEY. 

Si:e, the fire is sinking low. 
Dusky red the embers glow. 

While above them still I cower, 
While a moment more I linger, 
Though the clock, with lifted finger, 

Points beyond the midnight hour. 

Sings the blackened log a tune 
Learned in some forgotten June 

From a school-boy at his play. 
When they both were young together, 
Heart of youth and summer weather 

Making all their holiday. 

And the night-wind rising, hark ! 
How above there in the dark. 

In the midnight and the snow. 
Ever wilder, fiercer, grander, 
Like the trumpets of Iskander, 

All the noisy chimneys blow .' 

Every quivering tongue of flame 
Seems to murmur some great name, 

Seems to say to me, " Aspire ! " 
But the night -wind answers. " Hollow 
Are the visions that you follow, 

Into darkness sinks your fire ! " 

Then the flicker of the blaze 
Gleams on volumes of old days. 

Written by masters of the art. 
Loud through whose majestic pages 
Rolls the melody of ages, 

Throb the harp-strings of the heart. 

And again the tongues of flame 
Start exulting anl exclaim : 

" These are prophets, bards, and seers 
In the horoscope of nations, 
Like ascendant constellations. 

They control the coming years.'' 

But the night- wind cries : " Despair ! 
Those who walk with feet of air 

Leave no long-enduring marks ; 
At God's forges incandescent 
Mighty hammers beat incessant. 

These ane but the flying sparks. 

" Dust are all the hands that wrought ; 
Books are sepulchres of thought ; 

The dead laurels of the dead 
Rustle for a moment only. 
Like the withered leaves in lonely 

Churchj-ards at some passing thread. '' 

Suddenly the flame sinks down ; 
Sink the rumors of renown ^ 



238 



THE BELLS OF LYNN.— DIVINA COMMEDIA. 



And alone the night-wind drear 
Clamors louder, wilder, vaguer, — 
44 'T is the brand of Meleager 

Dying on the heart-stone here ! " 

And I answer, — tl Though it be, 
Why should that discomfort me ? 

No endeavor is in vain ; 
Its reward is in the doing, 
And the rapture of pursuing 

Is the prize the vanquished gain." 



THE BELLS OF LYNN. 

HEARD AT NAHANT. 

O CURFEW of the setting sun ! O Bells of Lynn ! 
O requiem of the dying day ! O Bells of Lynn ! 

From the dark belfries of yon cloud-cathedral 

wafted, 
Your sounds aerial seem to float, O Bells of 

Lynn ! 

Borne on the evening wind across the crimson 

twilight, 
O'er land and sea they rise and fall, O Bells of 

Lynn ! 

The fisherman in his boat, far out beyond the 

headland, 
Listens, and leisurely rows ashore, O Bells of 

Lynn ! 

Over the shining sands the wandering cattle 

homeward 
Follow each other at your call, O Bells of Lynn ! 

The distant lighthouse hears, and with his flam- 
ing signal 

Answers you, passing the watchword on, O Bells 
of Lynn ! 

And down the darkening coast run the tumul- 
tuous surges, 

And clap their hands, and shout to you, O Bells 
of Lynn ! 

Till from the shuddering sea, with your wild in- 
cantations, 
Ye summon up the spectral moon, O Bells of 

Lynn ! 

And startled at the sight, like the weird woman 

* of Endor, ^ 

Ye cry aloud, and then are still, O Bells of Lynn ! 



' KILLED AT THE FORD. 

He is dead, the beautiful youth, 

The heart of honor, the tongue of truth, 

He, the life and light of us all, 

Whose voice was blithe as a bugle-call, 

Whom all eyes followed with one consent, 

The cheer of whose laugh, and whose pleasant 

word, 
Hushed all murmurs of discontent. 

Only last night, as we rode along, 

Down the dark of the mountain gap, 

To visit the picket-guard at the ford, 

Little dreaming of any mishap, 

He was humming the words of some old song : 

"Two red roses he had on his cap, 

And another he bore at the point of his sword." 



Sudden and swift a whistling ball 
Came out of a wood, and the voice was still ; 
Something I heard in the darkness fall, 
And for a moment my blood grew chill ; 
I spake in a whisper, as he who speaks 
In a room where some one is lying dead ; 
But he made no answer to what I said. 

We lifted him up to his saddle again, 

And through the mire and the mist and the rain 

Carried him back to the silent camp, 

And laid him as if asleep on his bed ; 

And I saw by the light of the surgeon's lamp 

Two white roses upon his cheeks, 

And one, just over his heart, blood-red ! 

And I saw in a vision how far and fleet 

That fatal bullet went speeding forth, 

Till it reached a town in the distant North, 

Till it reached a house in a sunny street, 

Till it reached a heart that ceased to beat 

Without a murmur, without a cry ; 

And a bell was tolled, in that far-off town, 

For one who had passed from cross to crown, 

And the neighbors wondered that she should die. 



GIOTTO'S TOWER. 

How many lives, made beautiful and sweet 
By self-devotion and by self-restraint, 
Whose pleasure is to run without complaint 
On unknown errands of the Paraclete, 

Wanting the reverence of unshodden feet, 
Fail of the nimbus which the artists paint 
Around the shining forehead of the saint, 
And are in their completeness incomplete ! 

In the old Tuscan town stands Giotto's tower, 
The lily of Florence blossoming in stone, — 
A vision, a delight, and a desire, — 

The builder's perfect and centennial flower, 
That in the night of ages bloomed alone, 
But wanting still the glory of the spire. 



TO-MORROW. 

'T is late at night, and in the realm of sleep 
My little lambs are folded like the flocks ; 
From room to room I hear the wakeful clocks 
Challenge the passing hour, like guards that 
keep 

Their solitary watch on tower and steep ; 
Far off I hear the crowing of the cocks, 
And through the opening door that time unlocks 
Feel the fresh breathing of To-morrow creep 

To-morrow ! the mysterious, unknown guest, 
Who cries to me : " Remember Barmecide, 
And tremble to be happy with the rest. " 

And I make answer : "I am satisfied ; * 
I dare not ask ; I know not what is best ; 
God hath already said what shall betide. " 



DIVINA COMMEDIA. 

I. 

Oft have I seen at some cathedral door 
A laborer, pausing in the dust and heat, 
Lay down his burden, and with reverent feet 
Enter, and cross himself, and on the floor 



NOEL. 



230 



Kneel to repeat his paternoster o'er; 
Far off the noises of the world retreat ; 
The loud vociferations of the street 
Become an undistinguishable roar. 

So, as I enter here from day to day, 

And leave my burden at this minster gate, 
Kneeling in prayer, and not ashamed to pray, 

The tumult of the time disconsolate 
To inarticulate murmurs dies away, 
While the eternal ages watch and wait. 



II. 



How strange the sculptures that adorn these 
towers ! 
This crowd of statues, in whose folded sleeves 
Birds build their nests ; while canopied with 

leaves 
Parvis and portal bloom like trellised bowers, 
And the vast minster seems a cross of flowers ! 
But fiends and dragons on the gargoyled eaves 
Watch the dead Christ between the living 

thieves, 
And, underneath, the traitor Judas lowers ! 
Ah ! from what agonies of heart and brain, 
What exultations trampling on despair, 
What tenderness, what tears, what hate of 
wrong, 
What passionate outcry of a soul in pain, 
Uprose this poem of the earth and air, 
This mediaeval miracle of song ! 



III. 



I enter, and I see thee in the gloom 
Of the long aisles, O poet saturnine ! 
And strive to make my steps keep pace with 

thine. 
The air is filled with some unknown perfume ; 

The congregation of the dead make room 
For thee to pass ; the votive tapers shine ; 
Like rooks that haunt Ravenna's groves of pine 
The hovering echoes fly from tomb to tomb. 

From the confessionals I hear arise 
Rehearsals of forgotten tragedies, 
And lamentations from the crypts below ; 

And then a voice celestial, that begins 

With the pathetic words, "Although your sins 
As scarlet be," and ends with "as the snow." 



IV. 



With snow-white veil and garments as of flame, 
She stands before thee, who so long ago 
Filled thy young heart with passion and the woe 
From which thy song and all its splendors came ; 

And while with stern rebuke she speaks thy name, 
The ice about thy heart melts as the snow 
On mountain heights, and in swift overflow 
Comes gushing from thy lips in sobs of shame. 

Thou makest full confession ; and a gleam, 
As if the dawn on some dark forest cast, 
Seems on thy lifted forehead to increase ; 

Lethe and Eanoe — the remembered dream 
And the forgotten sorrow — bring at last 
That perfect pardon which is perfect peace. 



V. 



1 lift mine eyes, and all the windows blaze 
With forms of saints and holy men who died, 
Here martyred and hereafter glorified ; 
And the great Ross upon its leaves displays 

Christ's Triumph, and the angelic roundelays, 
With splendor upon splendor multiplied ; 
And Beatrice again at Dante's side 



of 



No more rebukes, but smiles her words 
praise. 
And then the organ sounds, and unseen choirs 
Sing the old Latin hymns of peace and love, 
And benedictions of the Holy Ghost ; 
And the melodious bells among the spires 

O'er all the house-tops and through heaven 

above 
Proclaim the elevation of the Host ' 



VI. 



O star of morning and of liberty ! 

O bringer of the light, whose splendor shines 
Above the darkness pi the Apennines, 
Forerunner of the day that is to be ! 

The voices of the city and the sea, 

The voices of the mountains and the pines, 
Repeat thy song, till the familiar lines 
Are footpaths for the thought of Italy ! 

Thy fame is blown abroad from all the heights, 
Through all the nations, and a sound is heard, 
As of a mighty wind, and men devout, 

Strangers of Rome, and the new proselytes, 
In their own language hear thy wondrous word, 
And many are amazed and many doubt. 



NOEL. 

ENVOYS A M. AGASSIZ, LA VEILLE DE NOEL iS64, 
AVEC UN PANIEli DE YINS DTVKB& 

L'Academie en respect, 
Nonobstant 1* incur rection 
A la faveur da sujet. 

Ture-lure, 
N'y fera point de rapture ; 
Noel ! ture-lure-lure. 

GVI BAROZAI. 

Quaxd les astres de Noel 
Brillaient, palpitaient au ciel, 
Six gaillards, et chacun ivre, 
Chantaient gaiment dans le givre, 

"Bons amis 
Allons done chez Aarassiz !" 



Ces illustres Pelerins 
D'Outre-Mer adroit s et fins, 
Se donnant des airs de pretfe, 
A l'envi se vantaient d'etre 

14 Bons amis 
De Jean Rudolphe Agassiz !" 

CEil-de-Perdrix, grand farceur, 
Sans reproche et sans pudeur, 
Dans son patois de Bourgogne, 
Bredouillait comme un ivrogne, 

" Bons amis, 
J'ai danse chez Agassiz !" 

Verzenay le Champenois, 
Bon Francais. point New-Yorquois, 
Mais des environs d'Avize, 
Fredonne a mainte reprise, 

" Bons amis, 
J'ai chance chez Asrassiz !" 



A cote marchait un vieux . 
Hidalgo, mais non mocsseux; 
Dans le temps de Charlemagne 
Fut son pere Grand d'Espagne ! 

"Bons amis. 
J'ai dine chez Agassiz !" 



240 



JUDAS MACCABEUS. 



Derriere eux un Bordelais, 


Bs arrivent trois a trois, 




Gascon, s'il en fut jamais, 


Montent l'escalier de bois 




Parfume de poesie 


Clopin-clopant ! quel gendarme 




Riait, chantait, plein de vie, 


Peut permettre ce vacarme, 




''Bons amis, 


Bons amis 




J'ai soupe chez Agassiz !" 


A la porte d' Agassiz ! 




Avec ce beau cadet roux, 


" Ouvrez done, mon bon Seigneur, 




Bras dessus et bras dessous, 


Ouvrez vite et n'ayez peur ; 




Mine altiere et couleur terne, 


Ouvrez, ouvrez, car nous sommes 




Vint le Sire de Sauterne ; 


Gens de bien et gentilshommes, 




" Bons amis, 


Bons amis 




J'ai couche chez Agassiz !" 


De la famille Agassiz !" 




Mais le dernier de ces preux, 


Chut, ganaches ! taisez-vous ! 




Etait un pauvre Chartreux, 


C'en est trop de vos glouglous ; 




Qui disait, d'un ton robuste, 


Bpargnez aux Philosophes 




"•Benedictions sur le Juste ! 


Vos abominables strophes ! 




Bons amis, 


Bons amis, 




Benissons Pere Agassiz ! " 


Respectez mon Agassiz. 





JUDAS MACCABEUS. 



ACT I. 

The Citadel of Antiochus at Jerusalem. 
Scene I. — Antiochus ; Jason. 

Antioc7iu$. O Antioch, my Antioch, my city ! 
Queen of the East ! my solace, my delight ! 
The dowry of my sister Cleopatra 
When she was wed to Ptolemy, and now 
Won back and made more wonderful by me ! 
Hove thee, and I long to be once more 
Among the players and the dancing women 
Within thy gates, and bathe in the Orontes, 
Thy river and mine. O Jason, my High-Priest, 
For I have made thee so, and thou art mine, 
Hast thou seen Antioch the Beautiful ? 

Jason. Never, my Lord. 

Ant. Then hast thou never seen 

The wonder of the world. This city of David 
Compared with Antioch is but a village, 
And its inhabitants compared with Greeks 
Are mannerless boors. 

Jason. They are barbarians, 

And mannerless. 

Ant. They must be civilized. 

They must be made to have more gods than one ; 
And goddesses besides. 

Jason. They shall have more. 

Ant. They must have hippodromes, and games, 
and baths, 
Stage-plays and festivals, and most of all 
The Dionysia. 

Jaunt. They shall have them all. 

Ant. By Heracles ! but I should like to see 

These Hebrews crowned with ivy, and arrayed 
In skins of fawns, with drums and flutes and 

thyrsi, 
Revel and riot through the solemn streets 
Of their old towns. Ha, ha ! It makes me merry 
Only to think of it ! — Thou dost not laugh. 

Jason. Yea, I laugh inwardly. 

Ant. The new Greek leaven 

Works slowly in this Israelitish dough ! 
Have I not sacked the Temple, and on the altar 
Set up the statue of Olympian Zeus 
To Hellenize it ? 

Jason. Thou hast done all this. 

Ant. As thou wast Joshua once and now art 
Jason, 
And from a Hebrew hast become a Greek, 



So shall this Hebrew nation be translated, 
Their very natures and their names be changed, 
And all be Hellenized. 

Jason. It shall be done. 

Ant. Their manners and their laws and way of 
living 
Shall all be Greek. They shall unlearn their 

language, 
And learn the lovely speech Gf Antioch. 
Where hast thou been to-day V Thou comest late. 
• Jason. Playing at discus with the other 
priests 
In the Gymnasium. 

Ant. Thou hast done well. 

There 's nothing better for you lazy priests 
Than discus-playing with the common people. 
Now tell me, Jason, what these Hebrews call me 
When they converse together at their games. 

Jason. Antiochus Epiphanes, my Lord ; 
Antiochus the Illustrious. 

Ant. O, not that ; 

That is the public cry ; I mean the name 
They give me when they talk among themselves, 
And think that no one listens ; what is that ? 

Jason. Antiochus Epimanes, my Lord ! 

Ant. Antiochus the Mad ! Ay, that is it. 
And who hath said it ? Who has set in motion 
That sorry jest ? 

Jason. The Seven Sons insane 

Of a weird woman, like themselves insane. 

Ant. I like their courage, but it shall not save 
them. 
They shall be made to eat the flesh of swine, 
Or they shall die. Where are they ? 

Jason. In the dungeons 

Beneath this tower. 

Ant. There let them stay and ttarve, 

Till I am ready to make Greeks of them, 
After my fashion. 

Jason. They shall stay and starve. — 

My Lord, the Ambassadors of Samaria 
Await thy pleasure. 

Ant. Why not my displeasure? 

Ambassadors are tedious. They are men. 
Who work for their own ends, and not for mine ; 
There is no furtherance in them. Let them go 
To Apollonius, my governor 
There in Samaria, and not trouble me. 
What do they want ? 

Jason. Only the royal sanction 

To give a name unto a nameless temple 



JUDAS MACCABEUS. 



241 



Upon Mount Gerizim. 

Ant. Then bid them enter. 

This pleases me, and furthers my designs. 
The occasion is auspicious. Bid them enter. 



Scene IL— Antiochus; Jason; the Samaritan 
Ambassadors. 

A nt. Approach. Come forward ; stand not at 

the door 
Wagging your long beards, but demean your- 
selves 
As doth become Ambassadors. What seek ye ? 

An Ambassador. An audience from the King. 

Ant. Speak, and be brief. 

Waste not the time in useless rhetoric. 
Words are not things. 

Ambassador {reading). "To King Antiochus, 
The God, Epiphanes ; a Memorial 
From the Sidonians, who live at Sichem. " 

Ant. Sidonians ? 

Ambassador. Ay, my Lord. 

Ant. Go on, go on ! 

And do not tire thyself and me with bowing ! 

Ambassador (read lag). "We area colony of 
Medes and Persians. " 

Ant. No, ye are Jews from one of the Ten 
Tribes ; 
Whether Sidonians or Samaritans 
Or Jews of Jewry, matters not to me ; 
Ye are all Israelites, ye are all Jews. 
When the Jews prosper, ye claim kindred with 

them ; 
When the Jews suffer, ye are Medes and Persians : 
I know that in the days of Alexander 
Ye claimed exemption from the annual tribute 
In the Sabbatic Year, because, ye said, 
Your fields had not been planted in that year. 

Ambassador (reading). " Our fathers, upon 
certain frequent plagues, 
And following an ancient superstition, 
Were long accustomed to observe that day 
Which by the Israelites is called the Sabbath, 
And in a temple on Mount Gerizim 
Without a name, they offered sacrifice. 
Now we, who are Sidonians, beseech thee, 
Who art our benefactor and our savior, 
Not to confound us with these wicked Jews, 
But to give royal order and injunction 
To Apollonius in Samaria, 
Thy governor, and likewise to Nicanor, 
Thy procurator, no more to molest us ; 
And let our nameless temple now be named 
The Temple of Jupiter Hellenius." 

Ant. This shall be done. Full well it pleaseth 
me 
Ye are not Jews, or are no longer Jews, 
But Greeks ; if not by birth, yet Greeks by cus- 
tom. 
Your nameless temple shall receive the name 
Of Jupiter Hellenius. Ye may go ! 



Scene in.— Antiochus ; Jason. 

Ant. My task is easier than I dreamed. 
These people 

Meet me half-way. Jason, didst thou take note 
How these Samaritans of Sichem said 
They were not Jews V that they were Medes and 

Persians, 
They were Sidonians, anything but Jews '? 
'T is of good augury. The rest will follow 
Till the whole land is Hcllenized. 

Jason. My Lord, 

These are Samaritans. The tribe of Judah 
Is of a different temper, and the task 
Will be more difficult. 

Ant. Dost thou gainsaj' me ? 

16 



Jason. I know the stubborn nature of the 
Jew, 
Yesterday, Eleazor, an old man, 
Being fourscore years and ten, choose rather 

death 
By torture than to eat the flesh of swine. 

Ant. The life is in the blood, and the whole 
nation 
Shall bleed to death, or it shall change its faith ! 
Jason. Hundreds have fled already to the 
mountains 
Of Ephraim, where Judas Maccabaeus 
Hath raised the standard of revolt against thee. 
Ant. I will burn down their city, and will 
make it 
Waste as a wilderness. Its thoroughfares 
j Shall be but furrows in a field of ashes. 
It shall be sown with salt as Sodom is ! 
This hundred and fifty-third Olympiad 
Shall have a broad and blood-red seal upon it, 
Stamped with the awful letters of my name, 
Antiochus the God, Epiphanes ! — 
Where are those Seven Sons f 

Jason. My Lord, they wait 

Thy royal pleasure. 
Ant. They shall wait no longer ! 



ACT II. 



TJie Dungeons in the Citadel. 

Scene I.— The Mother of the Seven Sons 
alone, listening. 

The Mother. Be strong, my heart ! 
Break not till they are dead. 
All, all mv Seven Sons ; then burst asunder, 
And let this tortured and tormented soul 
Leap and rush out like water through the shards 
Of earthen vessels broken at a well. 

my dear children, mine in life and death, 

1 know not how ye came into my womb ; 

I neither gave you breath, nor gave you life. 
And neither was it I that formed the members 
Of every one of you. But the Creator, 
Who made the world, and made the heavens 

above us, 
Who formed the generation of mankind. 
And found out the beginning of all things. 
He gave you breath and life, and will again 
Of his own mercy, as ye now regard 
2Sot your own selves, but his eternal law. 
I do not murmur, nay, I thank thee, God, 
That I and mine have not been deemed unworthy 
To suffer for thy sake, and for thy law, 
And for the many sins of Israel. 
Hark ! I can hear within the sound of scourges ! 
I feel them more than ye do, O my sons ! 
But cannot come to you. I, who was wont 
To wake at night at the least cry ye made, 
To whom ye ran at every slightest hurt, — 
I cannot take you now into my lap 
And sooth your pain, but God will take you all 
Into his pitying arms, and comfort you, 
And give y ou rest. 
A Voice (within). What wouldst thou ask of 

us? 
Ready are we to die, but we will never 
Transgress the laAv and customs of our fathers. 
The Mother. It is the voice of my first-born ! 

O brave 
And noble boy ! Thou hast the privilege 
Of dying first, as thou wast born the first. 

The same Voice (within). God looketh onus, 

and hath comfort in us ; 
As Moses in his song of old declared, 
He in his servants shall be comforted. 



242 



JUDAS MACCABEUS. 



The Mother. I knew thou wouldst not fail ! — 
He speaks no more, 
He is beyond all pain ! 

Ant. (within). If thou eat not 

Thou shalt be tortured throughout all the mem- 
bers 
Of thy whole body. Wilt thou eat then ? 

Second Voice {within). No. 

The Mother. It is Adaiah's voice. I tremble 
for him. 
I know his nature, devious as the wind, 
And swift to change, gentle and yielding always. 
Be steadfast, O my son ! 

The same Voice {within). Thou, like a fury, 
Takest us from this present life, but God, 
Who rules the world, shall raise us up again 
Into life everlasting. 

The Mother. God, I thank thee 

That thou hast breathed into that timid heart 
Courage to die for thee. O my Adaiah, 
Witness of God ! if thou for whom I feared 
Canst thus encounter death, I need not fear ; 
The others will not shrink. 

Third Voice {within). Behold these hands 

Held out to thee, O King Antiochus, 
Not to implore thy mercy, but to show 
That I despise them. He who gave them to me 
Will give them back again. 

The Mother. O Avilan, 

It is thy voice. For the last time I hear it ; 
For the last time on earth, but not the last 
To death it bids defiance and to torture. 
It sounds to me as from another world, 
And makes the petty miseries of this 
Seem unto me as naught, and less than naught. 
Farewell, my Avilan ; nay, I should say 
Welcome, my Avilan ; for I am. dead 
Before thee. I am waiting for the others. 
Why do they linger ? 

Fourth Voice {within). It is good, O King, 
Being put to death by men, to look for hope 
From God, to be raised up again by him. 
But thou — no resurrection shalt thou have 
To life hereafter. 

The Mother. Four! already four ! 

Three are still living ; nav, they all are living, 
Half here, half there. Make haste, Antiochus, 
To reunite us ; for the sword that cleaves 
These miserable bodies makes a door 
Through which our souls, impatient of release, 
Rush to each other's arms. 

Fifth Voice (within). Thou hast the power ; 
Thou doest what thou wilt. Abide awhile, 
And thou shalt see the power of God, and how 
He will torment thee and thy seed. 

The Mother. O hasten ; 

Why dost thou pause ? Thou who hast slain 

already 
So many Hebrew women, and hast hung 
Their murdered infants round their necks, slay 

me, 
For I too am a woman, and these boys 
Are mine. Make haste to slay us all, 
And hang my lifeless babes about my neck. 

Sixth Voice {within). Think not, Antiochus, 
that takest in hand 
To strive against the God of Israel, 
Thou shalt escape unpunished, for his wrath 
Shall overtake thee and thy bloody house. 

The Mother. One more, my Sirion, and then 
all is ended. 
Having put all to bed, then in my turn 
I will lie down and sleep as sound as they. 
My Sirion, my youngest, best beloved ! 
And those bright golden locks, that I so oft 
Have curled about these fingers, even now 
Are foul with blood and dust, like a lamb's fleece, 
Slain in the shambles. — Not a sound I hear. 
This silence is more terrible to me 
Than any sound, than any cry of pain, 
That might escape the lips of one who dies. 



Doth his heart fail him ? Doth he fall away 
In the last hour from God ? O Sirion, Sirion, 
Art thou afraid ? I do not hear thy voice 
Die as thy brothers died. Thou must not live ! 



Scene II.— The Mother ; Anttochits ; Sirion. 

The Mother. Are they all dead ? 

Ant. Of all thy Seven Sons 

One only lives. Behold them where they lie ; 
How dost thou like this picture ? 

The Mother. God in heaven ! 

Can a man do such deeds, and yet not die 
By the recoil of his own wickedness ? 
Ye murdered, bleeding, mutilated bodies 
That were my children once, and still are mine, 
I cannot watch o'er you as Rispah watched 
In sackcloth o'er the seven sons of Saul, 
Till water drop upon you out of heaven 
And wash this blood away ! I cannot mourn 
As she, the daughter of Aiah mourned the dead, 
From the beginning of the barley-harvest 
Until the autumn rains, and suffered not 
The birds of air to rest on them by day, 
Nor the wild beasts by night. For ye have died 
A better death, a death so full of life 
That I ought rather to rejoice than mourn. — 
Wherefore art thou not dead, O Sirion ? 
Wherefore art thou the only living thing 
Among thy brothers dead ? Art thou afraid ? 

Ant. O woman, I have spared him for thy 
sake, 
For he is fair to look upon and comely ; 
And I have sworn to him by all the gods 
That I would crown his life with joy and honor. 
Heap treasures on him, luxuries, delights, 
Make him my friend and keeper of my secrets, 
If he would turn from your Mosaic Law 
And be as we are ; but he will not listen, 

The Mother. My noble Sirion ! 

Ant. Therefore I beseech thee, 

Who art his mother, thou wouldst speak with 

him 
And wouldst persuade him. I am sick of blood. 

The Mother. Yea, I will speak with him and 
will persuade him 
O Sirion, my son ! have pity on me, 
On me that bare thee, and that gave thee suck, 
And fed and nourished thee, and brought thee 

up 
With the dear trouble of a mother's care 
Unto this age. Look on the heavens above thee, 
And on the earth and all that is therein ; 
Consider that God made them out of things 
That were not ; and that likewise in this manner 
Mankind was made. Then fear not this tormen- 
tor ; 
But, being worthy of thy brethren, take 
Thy death as they did, that I may receive thee 
Again in mercy with them. 

Ant. I am mocked, 

Yea, I am laughed to scorn. 

Sirion. Whom wait ye for ? 

Never will I obey the King's commandment, 
But the commandment of the ancient Law, 
That was by Moses given unto our fathers. 
And thou, O godless man, that of all others 
Art the most wicked, be not lifted up, 
Nor puffed up with uncertain hopes, uplifting 
Thy hand against the servants of the Lord, 
For thou hast not escaped the righteous judgment 
Of the Almighty God, who seeth all things ! 

Ant. He is no God of mine ; I fear him not. 

Sirion. My brothers, who have suffered a 
brief pain, 
Are dead ; but thou, Antiochus, shalt suffer 
The punishment of pride. I offer up 
My body and my life, beseeching God 
That he would speedily be merciful 
Unto our nation, and that thou by plagues 



JUDAS MACCABEUS. 



243 



Mysterious and by torments may est confess 
That he alone is God. 

Ant. Ye both shall perish 

By torments worse than any that your God, 
Here or hereafter, hath in store for me. 

The Mother. My Sirion, I am proud of thee ! 

Ant. Be silent ! 

Go to thy bed of torture in yon chamber, 
Waere lie so many sleepers, heartless mother ! 
Thy footsteps will not wake them, nor thy voice, 
Nor wilt thou hear, amid thy troubled dreams, 
Thy children crying for thee in the night ! 

The Mother. O Death, that stretchest thy 
white hands to me, 
I fear them not, but press them to my lips, 
That are as white as thine ; for I am Death, 
Nay, am the Mother of Death, seeing these sons 
All lying lifeless. — Kiss me, Sirion. 



ACT III. 

The Battle-field of Beth-horon. 

Scene I. — Judas Maccabjeus in armor before 
his tent. 

Judas. The trumpets sound ; the echoes of the 
mountains 
Answer them, as the Sabbath morning breaks 
Over Beth-horon and its battle-field, 
Where the great captain of the hosts of God, 
A slave brought up in the brick-fields of Egypt, 
Overcame the Amorites. There was no day 
Like that, before or after it, nor shall be. 
The sun stood still ; the hammers of the hail 
Beat on their harness ; and the captains set 
Their weary feet upon the necks of kings, 
As I will upon thine, Antiochus, 
Thou man of blood ! — Behold the rising sun 
Strikes on the golden letters of my banner, 
Be Mohim YehovaK! Who is like 
To thee, O Lord, among the gods ? — Alas ! 
-I am not Joshua, I cannot say, 
11 San, stand thou still on Gibeon, and thou Moon, 
In Ajalon ! " Nor am I one who wastes 
The fateful time in useless lamentation ; 
But one who bears his life upon his hand 
To lose it or to save it, as may best 
Serve the designs of Him who giveth life. 



Scene II.— Judas Maccabeus ; Jewish Fugi- 
tives. 

Judas. Who and what are ye, that with fur- 
tive steps 
Steal in among our tents ? 

Fugitii'fs. O Maccabneus, 

Outcasts are we, and fugitives as thou art, 
Jews of Jerusalem, that have escape! 
From the polluted cit}-, and from death. 

Judas. None can escape from death. Say 
that ye come 
To die for Israel, and ye are welcome. 
What tidings bring ye ? 

Fugitives Tidings of despair. 

The Temple is laid waste ; the precious vessels, 
Censers of gold, vials and veils and crowns, 
And golden ornaments, and hidden treasures, 
Have all been taken from it, and the Gentiles 
With revelling and with riot fill its courts, 
And dally with harlots in the holy places. 

Judas. All this I knew before. 

Fugitives. Upon the altar 

Are things profane, things by the law forbidden ; 
Nor can we keep our Sabbaths or our Feasts, 
But on the festivals of Dionysus 



Must walk in their processions, bearing ivy 
I To crown a drunken god. 

Judas. This too I know. 

But tell me of the Jews. How fare the Jews ? 
Fugitives. The coming of this mischief hath 
been sore 
And grievous to the people. All the land 
Is full of lamentation and of mourning. 
! The Princes and the Elders weep and wail ; 
\ The young men and the maidens are made feeble ; 
I The beauty of the women hath been changed. 
Judas. And are there none to die for Israel ? 
'Tis not enough to mourn. Breastplate and har- 
ness 
Are better things than sackcloth. Let the women 
Lament for Israel ; the men should die. 

Fugitives. Both men and women die ; old men 
and young ; 
Old Eleazer died : and Mahala 
With all her Seven Sons. 

Judas. Antiochus, 

At every step thou takest there is left 
A bloody footprint in the street, by which 
The avenging wrath of God will track thee out ! 
It is enough. Go to the sutler's tents : 
Those of you who are men, put on such armor 
As ye may find ; those of you who are women, 
Buckle that armor on ; and for a watch-word 
Whisper, or cry aloud, ''The Help of God." 



Scene III.— Judas Maccab^eus; Nicanor. 

Nieanor. Hail, Judas Maccabaous ! 

Judos. Hail ! — Who art thou 

That comest here in this mysterious guise 
Into our camp unheralded "i 

Nic. A herald 

Sent from Nicanor. 

Judas. Heralds come not thus. 

Armed with thy shirt of mail from head to heel, 
Thou glidest like a serpent silently 
Into my presence. Wherefore dost thou turn 
Thy face from me? A herald speaks his errand 
With forehead unabashed. Thou art a spy 
Sent by Nicanor. 

Nic. No disguise avails ! 

Behold my face ; I am Nicanor' s self. 

Judas. Thou art indeed Nicanor. I salute 
thee. 
What brings thee hither to this hostile camp 
Thus unattended ? 

Nic. Confidence in thee. 

Thou hast the nobler virtues of thy race, 
Without the failings that attend those virtues. 
Thou canst be strong, and yet not tyrannous, 
Canst righteous be and not intolerant. 
Let there be peace between us. 

Judas. What is peace ? 

Is it to bow in silence to our victors ? 
Is it to see our cities sacked and pillaged. 
Our people slain, or sold as slaves, or fleeing 
At night-time by the blaze of burning towns ; 
Jerusalem laid waste ; the Holy Temple 
Polluted with strange gods ? Are these things 
peace '? 

Nic. These are the dire necessities that wait 
On war, whose loud and bloody enginery 
I seek to stay. Let there be peace between 
Antiochus and thee. 

Judas. Antiochus ? 

What is Antiochus, that he should prate 
Of peace to me, who am a fugitive ? 
To-day he shall be lifted up ; to-morrow 
Shall not be found, because he is returned 
Unto his dust ; his thought has come to nothing. 
There is no peace between us, nor can be, 
Until this banner floats upon the walls 
Of our Jerusalem. 

Nic. Between that city 

And thee there lies a waving wall of tents, 



244 



JUDAS MACCABEUS. 



Held by a host of forty thousand foot, 

And horsemen seven thousand. What hast thou 

To bring against all these ? 

Judas. The power of God, 

Whose breath shall scatter your white tents 

abroad, 
As flakes of snow. 

Xu: Your Mighty One in heaven 

Will not do battle on the Seventh Day ; 
It is his day of rest. 

Judas. Silence, blasphemer. 

Go to thy tents. 

Nic. Shall it be Avar or peace ? 

Judas. War, war, and only war. Go to thy 
tents 
That shall be scattered, as by you were scattered 
The torn and trampled pages of the Law, 
Blown through the windy streets. 

Nic. Farewell, brave foe ! 

Judas. Ho, there, my captains ! Have safe 
conduct given 
Unto Nicanor's herald through the camp, 
And come yourselves to me. — Farewell, Nicanor ! 



Captains. The Lord is with us ! 

Judas. Hark ! I hear the trumpets 

Sound from Beth-horon ; from the battle-field 
Of Joshua, where he smote the Amorites, 
Smote the Five Kings of Eglon and of Jarmuth, 
Of Hebron, Lachish, and Jerusalem, 
As we to-day will smite Nicanor's hosts 
And leave a memory of great deeds behind us. 

Captains and Soldiers. The help of God ! 

Judas. Be Elohim Yehovah ! 

Lord, thou didst send thine Angel in the time 
Of Esekias, King of Israel, 
And in the armies of Sennacherib 
Didst slay a hundred fourscore and five thousand. 
Wherefore, O Lord of heaven, now also send 
Before us a good angel for a fear, 
And through the might of thy right arm let those 
Be stricken with terror that have come this day 
Against thy holy people to blaspheme ! 



Scene IV. — Judas Maccabeus 
and Soldiers. 



Captains 



Judas. The hour is come. Gather the host 
together 
For battle. Lo, with trumpets and with songs 
The army of Nicanor comes against us. 
Go forth to meet them, praying in your hearts, 
And fighting with your hands. 

Captains. Look forth and see ! 

The morning sun is shining on their shields 
Of gold and brass ; the mountains glisten with 

them, 
And shine like lamps. And we who are so few 
And poorly armed, and ready to faint with fasting, 
How shall we fight against this multitude V 

Judas. The victory of a battle standeth not 
In multitudes, but in the strength that cometh 
From heaven above. The Lord forbid that I 
Should do this thing, and flee away from them. 
Nay, if our hour be come, then let us die ; 
Let us not stain our honor. 

Captai?is. 'T is the Sabbath. 

Wilt thou fight on the Sabbath, Maccabaeus ? 
Judas. Ay ; when I fight the battles of the 
Lord, 
I fight them on his day, as on all others. 
Have ye forgotten certain fugitives 
That fled once to these hills, and hid themselves 
In caves ? How their pursuers camped against 

them 
Upon the Seventh Day, and challenged them ? 
And how they answered not, nor cast a stone, 
Nor stopped the places where they lay concealed, 
But meekly perished with their wives and chil- 
dren, 
Even to the number of a thousand souls ? 
We who are lighting for our laws and lives 
Will not so perish. 

Captains. Lead us to the battle ! 

Judas. And let our watchword be, " The 
Help^of God ! " 
Last night I dreamed a dream ; and in my vision 
Beheld Onias, our High-Priest of old, 
Who holding up his hands prayed for the Jews. 
This done, in the like manner there appeared 
An old man, and exceeding glorious, 
With hoary hair, and of a wonderful 
And excellent majesty. And Onias said : 
" This is a lover of the Jews, who prayeth 
Much for the people and the Holy City, — 
God's prophet Jeremias." And the prophet 
Held forth his right hand and gave unto me 
A sword of gold ; and giving it he said : 
1 1 Take thou this holy sword, a gift from God, 
And with it t>.ou shalt wound thine adversaries." 



ACT IV. 

The outer Courts of the Temple at Jerusalem. 

Scene I.— Judas Maccab^eus ; Captains ; 
Jews. 

Judas. Behold, our enemies are discomfited. 
Jerusalem is fallen ; and our banners 
Float from her battlements, and o'er her gates 
Nicanor's severed head, a sign of terror, 
Blackens in wind and sun. 

Captains. O Maccabaeus, 

The citadel of Antiochus, wherein 
The Mother with her Seven Sons was murdered, 
Is still defiant. 

Judas. Wait. 

Captains. Its hateful aspect 

Insults us with the bitter memories 
Of other days. 

Judas. Wait ; it shall disappear 

And vanish as a cloud. First let us cleanse 
The Sanctuary. See, it is become 
Waste like a wilderness. Its golden gates 
Wrenched from their hinges and consumed by fire; 
Shrubs growing in its courts as in a forest ; 
Upon its altars hideous and strange idols ; 
And strewn about its pavement at my feet 
Its Sacred Books, half burned and painted o'er 
With images of heathen gods. 

Jews. Woe ! woe ! 

Our beauty and our glory are laid waste ! 
The Gentiles have profaned our holy places ! 

{Lamentation and alarm of trumpets.) 

Judas. This sound of trumpets, and this 
lamentation, 
The heart-cry of a people toward the heavens, 
Stir me to wrath and vengeance. Go, my cap- 
tains ; 
I hold you back no longer. Batter down 
The citadel of Antiochus, while here 
We sweep away his altars and his gods. 



Scene II.— Judas Maccabeus ; Jason ; Jews. 

Jews. Lurking among the ruins of the Temple, 
Deep in its inner courts, we found this man, 
Clad as High-Priest. 

Judas. I ask not who thou art. 

I know thy face, writ over with deceit 
As are these tattered volumes of the Law 
With heathen images. A priest of God 
Wast thou in other days, but thou art now. 
A priest of Satan. Traitor, thou art Jason. 



JUDAS MACCABEUS. 



24' 



Jason. I am thy prisoner, Judas Maccabaeus, 
And it would ill become me to conceal 
My name or office. 

Judas. Over yonder gate 

There hangs the head of one who was a Greek. 
What should prevent me now, thou man < f sin, 
From hanging at its side the head of one 
Who born a Jew hath made himself a Greek ? 

Jason. Justice prevents thee. 

Judas. Justice 'i Thou art stained 
With every crime 'gainst which the Decalogue 
Thunders with all its thunder. 

Jason. If not Justice, 

Then Mercy, her handmaiden. 

Judas. ' When hast thou 

At any time, to any man or woman, 
Or even to any little child, shown mercy ? 

Jason. I have but done what King Antiochus 
Commanded me. 

Judas. True, thou hast been the w 7 eapon 

With which he struck; but hast been such a 

weapon, 
So flexible, so fitted to his hand, 
It tempted him to strike. So thou hast urged 

him 
To double wickedness, thine own and his. 
Where is this King V Is he in Antioch 
Among his women still, and from his windows 
Throwing down gold by handfuls, for the rab- 
ble 
To scramble for ? 

Jason. Nay, he is gone from there, 
Gone with an army into the far E.ist. 

Judas. And wherefore gone ? 

Jason. I know not. For the space 

Of forty days almost were horsemen seen 
Running in air, in cloth of gold, and armed 
With lances, like a baud of soldiery ; 
It was a sign of triumph. 

Judas. Or of death. 

Wherefore art thou not with him ? 

Jason. I was left 

For service in the Temple. 

Judas. To pollute it, 

And to corrupt the Jews ; for there are men 
Whose presence is corruption ; to be with them 
Degrades us and deforms the things we do. 

Jason. I never made a boast, as some men 
do, 
Of my superior virtue, nor denied 
The weakness of my nature, that hath made 

me 
Subservient to the will of other men. 

Jadas. Upon this day, the five-and-twentieth 
day 
Of the month Caslan, was the Temple here 
Profaned by strangers, — by Antiochus 
And thee, his instrument. Upon this day 
Shall it be cleansed. Thou, wlio didst lend thy- 
self 
Unto this profanation , canst not be 
A witness of these solemn services. 
Tnere can be nothing clean where thou art pres- 
ent. 
The people put to death Callisthenes, 
Who burned the Temple gates ; and if they find 

thee 
Will surely slay thee. I will spare thy life 
To punish thee the longer. Thou shalt wander 
Among strange nations. Thou, that hast cast 

out 
So many from their native land, shalt perish 
In a strange land. Thou, that hast left so many 
Unburied, shalt have none to mourn for thee, 
Nor any solemn funerals at all, 
Nor sepulchre with thy fathers. — Get thee hence ! 

(ifusic. Procession of Priests and people, with 
citherns, harps, and cymbals. Judas Macca- 
beus ] )nts himself at their head, and they 
go into the inner courts.) 



Scene III.— Jason, alone. 

Jason, Through the Gate Beautiful I see 
them come 
With branches and green boughs and leaves of 

palm, 
And pass into the inner courts. Alas ! 
I should be with them, should be one of them, 
But in an evil hour, an hour of weakness, 
That cometh unto all, I fell away 
Fi om the old faith, and did not clutch the new, 
Only an outward semblance of belief ; 
For the new faith I cannot make mine own, 
Not being born to it. It hath no root 
Within me. I am neither Jew nor Greek, 
But stand between them both, a renegade 
To each in turn ; having no longer faith 
In gods or men. Then what mysterious charm, 
What fascination is it chains my feet, 
And keeps me gazing like a curious child 
Into the holy places, where the priests 
Have raised their altar ? — Striking stones to- 
gether, 
They take fire out of them, and light the lamps 
In the great candlestick. They spread the veils, 
And set the loaves of showbread on the table. 
The incense burns ; the well-remembered odor 
Comes wafted unto me, and takes me back 
To other days. I see myself among them 
As I was then ; and the old superstition 
Creeps over me again ! — A childish fancy ! — 
And hark! they sing w r ith citherns and with 

cymbals. 
And all the people fall upon their faces. 
Praying and worshipping ! — I will away 
Into the East, to meet Antiochus 
Upon his homeward journey, crowned with 

triumph. 
Alas ! to-day I would give everything 
To see a friend's face, or to hear a voice 
That had the slightest tone of comfort in it ! 



ACT V. 

The Mountains of Ecbalana. 

Scene I. — Antiochus ; Philip ; Attendants. 

Ant. Here let us rest awhile. Where are we, 
Philip ? 
What place is this ? 

Philip. Ecbatana, my Lord; 

And yonder mountain range is the Orontes. 

Ant. The Orontes is my river at Antioch. 
Why did I leave it ? Why have I been tempted 
i By coverings of gold and shields and breastplates 
| To plunder Elymais, and be driven 
! From out its gates, as by a fiery blast 
! Out of a furnace *? 

Philijj. These are fortune's changes. 
Ant. What a defeat it was ! The Persian 
horsemen 
Came like a mighty wind, the wind Khamaseen, 
' And melted us away, and scattered us 
As if we Avere dead leaves, or desert sand. 
PhUip. Be comforted, my Lord; for thou 
hast lost 
i But what thou hadst not. 

Ant. I, who made the Jews 

Skip like the grasshoppers, am made myself 
To skip among these stones. 

Philip Be not discouraged. 

Thy realm of Syria remains to thee ; 
That is not lost nor marred. 

Ant. O, where are now 

The splendors of my court, my baths and ban- 
quets ? 



24G 



JUDAS MACCABEUS. 



Where are my players and my dancing women ? 
Where are my sweet musicians with their pipes, 
That made me merry in the olden time "i 
I am a laughing-stock to man and brute. 
The very camels, with their ugly faces, 
Mock me and laugh at me. 

Philip. Alas ! my Lord, 

It is not so. If thou wouldst sleep awhile, 
All would be well. 

Ant Sleep from mine eyes is gone, 

And my heart faileth me for very care. 
Dost thou remember, Philip, the old fable 
Told us when we were boys, in which the bear 
Going for honey overturns the hive, 
And is stung blind bv bees ? I am that beast, 
Stung by the Persian swarms of Elymais. 

Philip. When thou art come again to Antioch 
These thoughts will be as covered and forgotten, 
As are the tracks of Pharaoh's chariot-wneels 
In the Egyptian sands. 

Ant. Ah ! when I come 

Again to Antioch ! When will that be ? 
Alas ! alas ! 



Scene II. — Antiochus; Philip; A Messen- 
ger. 

Messenger. May the King live forever ! 

Ant. Who art thou, and whence comest thou ? 

Messenger. My Lord, 

I am a messenger from Antioch, 
Sent here by Lysias. 

Ant. A strange foreboding 

Of something evil overshadows me. 
I am no reader of the Jewish Scriptures ; 
I know not Hebrew ; but my High-Priest Jason, 
As I remember, told me of a Prophet 
Who saw a little cloud rise from the sea 
Like a man's hand, and soon the heaven was 

black 
With clouds and rain. Here, Philip, read ; I 

cannot ; 
I see that cloud. It makes the letters dim 
Before mine eyes. 

Philip {reading.) ; ' To King Antiochus, 
The God, Epiphanes." 

Ant. O mockery 

Even Lysias laughs at me ! — Go on, go on ! 

Philip {reading). "We pray thee hasten 

thy return. The realm 
Is falling from thee. Since thou hast gone from 

us 
The victories of Judas Maccabaeus 
Form all our annals. First he overthrew 
Thy forces at Beth-horon, and passed on, 
And took Jerusalem, the Holy City. 
And then Emmaus fell ; and then Bethsura ; 
Ephron and all the towns of Galaad, 
And Maccabaeus marched to Carnion." 

Ant. Enough, enough ! Go call my chariot- 
men ; 
We will drive forward, forward, without ceasing, 
Until we come to Antioch. My captains, 



My Lysias, Gorgias, Seron, and Nicanor, 
Are babes in battle, and this dreadful Jew 
Will rob me of my kingdom and my crown. 
My elephants shall trample him to dust ; 
I will wipe out his nation, and will make 
Jerusalem a common burying-place, 
And every home within its walls a tomb ! 

{Throws up his hands, and si?iks into the oirms of 
attendants, who lay him upon a bank. ) 

Philip. Antiochus ! Antiochus ! Alas, 
The King is ill ! What is it, O my Lord ? 

Ant. Nothing. A sudden and sharp spasm of 
pain, 
As if the lightning struck me, or the knife 
Of an assassin smote me to the heart. 
'T is passed, even as it came. Let us set for- 
ward. 

Philip. See that the chariots be in readiness ; 
We will depart forthwith. 

Ant. A moment more. 

I cannot stand. I am become at once 
Weak as an infant. Ye will have to lead me. 
Jove, or Jehovah, or whatever name 
Thou wouldst be named, — it is alike to me, — 
If I knew how to pray, I would entreat 
To live a little longer. 

Philip. O my Lord 

Thou shalt not die ; we will not let thee die ! 

Ant. How canst thou help it, Philip ? O the 
pain ! 
Stab after stab. Thou hast no shield against 
This unseen weapon. God of Israel, 
Since all the other gods abandon me, 
Help me. I will release the Holy City, 
Garnish with goodly gifts the Holy Temple. 
Thy people, whom I judged to be unworthy 
To be so much as buried, shall be equal 
Unto the citizens of Antioch. 
I will become a Jew, and will declare 
Thiough all the world that is inhabited 
The power of God ! 

Philip. He faints. It is like death. 
Bring, here the royal litter. We will bear him 
Into the camp, while yet he lives. 

Ant O Philip, 

Into what tribulation am I come ! 
Alas ! I now remember all the evil 
I have done the Jews ; and for this cause 
These troubles are upon me, and behold 
I perish through great grief in a strange land. 

Philip. Antiochus ! my King ! 

Ant. Nay, King no longer. 

Take thou my royal robes, my signet-ring, 
My crown and sceptre, and dcdiver them 
Unto my son, Antiochus Eupator ; 
And unto the good Jews, my citizens, 
In all my towns, say that their dying monarch 
Wisheth them joy, prosperity, and health. 
I who, puffed up with pride and arrogance. 
Thought all the kingdoms of the earth mine own, 
If I would but outstretch my hand and take 

them, 
Meet face to face a greater potentate, 
King Death— Epiphanes — the Illustrious ! [Dies. 



THE FUGITIVE.— THE SIEGE OF KAZAN. 



247 



A HANDFUL OF TRANSLATIONS. 



THE FUGITIVE. 

Tartar Song from the Prose Version of 
Ghodzko. 



I. 



" He is gone to the desert land ! 
I can see the shining mane 
Of his horse on the distant plain, 
As he rides with his Kossak band ! 

" Come back, rebellious one ! 
Lat thy proud heart relent ; 
Come back to my tall, white tent, 
Come back, my only son ! 

" Thy hand in freedom shall 
Cast thy hawks, when morning breaks, 
On the swans of the Seven Lakes, 
On the lakes of Karajal. 

" I will give thee leave to stray 
And pasture thy hunting steeds 
Jn the long grass and the reeds 
Of the meadows of Karaday. 

" I will give thee my coat of mail, 
Of softest leather made, 
With choicest steel inlaid ; 
Will not all this prevail ? " 



II. 



" This hand no longer shall 
Cast my hawks, when morning breaks, 
On the swans of the Seven Lakes, 
On the lakes of Karajal. 

44 1 will no longer stray 
And pasture my hunting steeds 
In the long grass and the reeds 
Of the meadows of Karaday. 

" Though thou give me thy coat of mail, 
Of softest leather made, 
With choicest steel inlaid, 
All this cannot prevail. 

u What right hast thou, O Khan, 
To me, who am mine own, 
Who am slave to God alone, 
And not to any man ? 

' ' God will appoint the day 

When I again shall be 

By the blue, shallow sea, 

Where the steel-bright sturgeons play. 

" God, who doth care for me, 
In the barren wilderness, 
On unknown hills, no less 
Will my companion be. 

" When I wander lonely and lost 
In the wind ; when I watch at night 
Like a hungry wolf, and am white 
And covered with hoar-frost ■ 

" Yea, wheresoever I be, 
In the yellow desert sands, 
In mountains or unknown lands, 
Allah will care for me ! " 



III. 

Then Sobra, the old, old man, — 
Three hundred and sixty years 
Had he lived in this land of tears, 
Bowed down and said, ' k O Khan ! 

" If you bid me, I will speak. 
There 's no sap in dry grass, 
No marrow in dry bones ! Alas, 
The mind of old men is weak ! 

"lam old, I am very old : 

I have seen the primeval man, 

I have seen the great Gengis Khan, 
Arrayed in his robes of gold. 

I I What I say to you is the truth ; 
And I say to you, O Khan, 
Pursue not the star-white man, 
Pursue not the beautiful youth. 

" Him the Almighty made, 
And brought him forth of the light, 
At the verge and end of the night, 
When men on the mountain piayed. 

"He was born at the break of day, 
When abroad the angels walk ; 
He hath listened to their talk, 
And he knoweth what they say. 

" Gifted with Allah's grace, 
Like the moon of Ramazan 
When it shines in the skies, O Khan, 
Is the light of his beautiful face. 

"When first on earth he trod, 
The first words that he said 
Were these, as he stood and prayed. 
There is no God but God ! 

1 ' And he shall be king of men", 
For Allah hath heard his prayer, 
And the Archangel in the air, 
Gabriel, hath said, Amen ! " 



THE SIEGE OF KAZAN. 

Tartar Song, from the Prose Version of 
Chodzko. 

Black are the moors before Kazan. 

And their stagnant waters smell of blood 
I said in my heart, with horse and man, 

I will swim across this shallow flood. 

Under the feet of Argamack, 

Like new moons were the shoes he bare, 
Silken trappings hung on his back, 

In a talisman on his neck, a prayer. 

My warriors, thought I, are following me ; 

But when I looked behind, alas ! 
Not one of all the band could I see, 

All had sunk in the black morass ! 



248 



THE BOY AND THE BROOK— TO CARDINAL RICHELIEU. 



Where are our shallow fords ? and where 
The power of Kazan with its fourfold gates ? 

From the prison windows our maidens fair 
Talk of us still through the iron grates. 

We cannot hear them ; for horse and man 
Lie buried deep in the dark abyss ! 

Ah ! the black day hath come down on Kazan ! 
Ah ! was ever a grief like this ? 



THE BOY AND THE BROOK. 

Armenian Popular Song, from the Prose Ver- 
sion of Alishan. 

Down from yon distant mountain height 

The brooklet flows through the village street ; 
A boy comes forth, to wash his hands, 
Washing, yes washing, there he stands, 
In the water cool and sweet. 

Brook, from what mountain dost thou come, 

O my brooklet cool and sweet ! 
I come from yon mountain high and cold, 
Where lieth the new snow on the old, 

And melts in the summer heat. 

Brook, to what river dost thou go ? 

O my brooklet cool and sweet ! 
I go to the river there below 
Where in bunches the violets grow, 

And sun and shadow meet. 

Brook, to what garden dost thou go ? 

O my brooklet cool and sweet ! 
I go to the garden in the vale 
Where all night long the nightingale 

Her love-song doth repeat. 

Brook, to what fountain dost thou go ? 

O my brooklet cool and sweet ! 
I go to the fountain at whose brink 
The maid that loves t lee comes to drink, 
And whenever she looks therein, 
I rise to meet her, and kiss her chin, 

And my joy is then complete. 



From Varaca's rocky wall, 

From the rock of Varaca unrolled, 
The snow came and covered all, 

And the green meadow was cold. 

O Stork, our garden with snow 
Was hidden away and lost, 

And the rose-trees that in it grow 
Were withered by snow and frost. 



TO THE STORK. 

Armenian Popular Song, from the Prose Ver- 
sion of Alishan. 

Welcome, O Stork ! that dost wing 

Thy flight from the far-away ! 
Thou hast brought us the signs of Spring 

Thou hast made our sad hearts gay. 

Descend, O Stork ! descend 

Upon our roof to rest ; 
In our ash-tree, O my friend, 

My darling, make thy nest. 

To thee, O Stork, I complain, 

O Stork, to thee I impart 
The thousand sorrows, the pain 

And aching of my heart. 

When thou away didst go, 

Away from this tree of ours, 
The withering winds did blow, 

And dried up all the flowers. 

Dark grew the brilliant sky, 

Cloudy. and dark and drear ; 
They were breaking the snow on high, 

And winter was drawing near. 



CONSOLATION. 

To M. Duperrier, Gentleman of Aix in Pro- 
vence, on the Death of his Daughter. 

FROM MALHERBE. 

Will then, Duperrier, thy sorrow be eternal ? 

And shall- the sad discourse 
Whispered within thy heart, by tenderness pa- 
ternal, 

Only augment its force ? 

Thy daughter's mournful fate, into the tomb 
descending 

By death's frequented ways, 
Has it become to thee a labyrinth never ending, 

Where thy lost reason strays ? 

I know the charms that made her youth a bene- 
diction : 

Nor should I be content, 
As a censorious friend, to solace thine affliction 

By her disparagement. 

But she was of the world, which fairest things 
exposes 

To fates the most forlorn ; 
A rose, she too hath lived as long as live the roses, 

The space of one brief morn. 



Death has his rigorous laws, unparalleled, unfeel- 
ing ; 
All prayers to him are vain ; 
Cruel, he stops his ears, and, deaf to our appeal- 
ing. 
He leaves us to complain. 

The poor man in his hut, with only thatch for 
cover, 
Unto these laws must bend ; 
The sentinel that guards the barriers of the 
Louvre 
Cannot our kings defend. 

To murmur against death, in petulant defiance, 

Is never for the best ; 
To will what God doth will, that is the only 
science 

That gives us any rest. 



TO CARDINAL RICHELIEU. 

FROM MALHERBE. 

Thou mighty Prince of Church and State, 
Richelieu ! until the hour of death, 
Whatever road man chooses. Fate 
Still holds him subject to her breath. 
Spun of all silks, our days and nights 
Have sorrows woven with delights ; 
And of this intermingled shade 
Our various destiny appears, 
Even as one sees the course of years 
Of summers and of winters made. 



THE ANGEL AND THE CHILD.— SANTA TERESA'S BOOK-MARK. 



249 



Sometimes the soft, deceitful hours 
Let us enjoy the halcyon wave ; 
Sometimes impending peril lowers 
Beyond the seaman's skill to save. 
The Wisdom, infinitely wise, 
That gives to human destinies 
Their foreordained necessity, 
Has made no law more fixed below, 
Than the alternate ebb and flow 
Of Fortune and Adversity. 



THE ANGEL AND THE CHILD. 

FROM JEAN REBOUL, THE BAKER OF NISMES. 

An angel with a radiant face, 

Above a cradle bent to look, 
Seemed his own image there to trace, 

As in the waters of a brook. 

" Dear child ! who me resemblest so," 
It whispered, " come, O come with me ! 

Happy together let us go, 

The earth unworthy is of thee ! 

" Here none to perfect bliss attain ; 

The soul in pleasure suffering lies ; 
Joy hath an undertone of pain, 

And even the happiest hours their sighs. 

" Fear doth at every portal knock ; 

Never a day serene and pure 
From the o'ershadowing tempest's shock 

Hath made the morrow's dawn secure. 

41 What, then, shall sorrows and shall fears 
Come to disturb so pure a brow ? 

And with the bitterness of tears 
These eyes of azure troubled grow ? 

'.' Ah no ! into the fields of space. 
Away shalt thou escape with me; 

And Providence will grant the grace 
Of all the days that were to be. 

1 ' Let no one in thy dwelling cower, 
In sombre vestments draped and veiled ; 

But let them welcome thy last hour, 
As thy first moments once they hailed. 

" Without a cloud be there each brow ; 

There let the grave no shadow cast ; 
When one is pure as thou art now, 

The fairest day is still the last." 

And waving wide his wings of white, 
The angel, at these words, had sped 

Towards the eternal realms of light ! — 
Poor mother ! see, thy son is dead ! 



WANDERER'S NIGHT-SONGS. 



FROM GOETHE. 



Tuor that from the heavens art, 
Every pain and sorrow stillest, 
And the doubly wretched heart 
Doubly with refreshment tillest, 
I am weary with contending ! 
Why this rapture and unrest ? 
Peace descending 
Come, ah, come into my breast ! 



II. 



O'er all the hill-tops 

Is quiet now, 

In all the tree-tops 

Hearest thou 

Hardly a breath ; 

The birds are asleep in the trees 

Wait ; soon like these : 

Thou too shalt rest. 



REMORSE. 

FROM AEGUST VON PLATEN. 

How I started up in the night, in the night, 
Drawn on without rest or reprieval ! 

The streets, with their watchmen, were lost to 
my sight, 
As I wandered so light 
In the night, in the night, 

Through the gate with tiie arch mediaeval. 

The mill-brook rushed from the rocky height. 

I leaned o'er the bridge in my yearning; 
Deep under me watched I the waves in their 
flight. 

As they glided so light 

In the night, in the night, 
Yet backward not one was returning. 

O'er head were revolving, so countless and 
bright, 
The stars in melodious existence ; 
And with them the moon, more serenely be- 
dight ; — 
They sparkled so light 
In the night, in the night, 
Through the magical, measureless distance. 



TO ITALY. 

FROM FILICAJA. 

Italy ! Italy ! thou wdio 'rt doomed to wear 
The fatal gift of beauty, and possess 
The dower f unest of infinite wretchedness 
Written upon thy forehead by despair ; 

Ah ! would that thou wert stronger, or less fair, 
That they might fear thee more, or love thee less, 
Who in the splendor of thy loveliness 
Seem wasting, yet to mortal combat dare ! 

Then from the Alps I should not see descending 
Such torrents of armed men, nor Gallic horde 
Drinking the wave of Po, distained with gore, 

Nor should I see thee girded with a sword 

Not thine, and with the stranger's arm con- 
tending, 
Victor or vanquished, slave forevermore. 



And upward I gazed in the night, in the night, 
And again on the waves in their fleeting ; 

Ah woe ! thou hast wasted thy days in delight, 
Now silence thou light, 
In the night, in the night, 

The remorse in thy heart that is beating. 



SANTA TERESA'S BOOK-MARK. 

FROM THE SPANISH OF SANTA TERESA. 

Let nothing disturb thee, 
Nothing affright thee ; 
All things are passing ; 
God never changeth ; 
Patient endurance 
Attaineth to all things ; 
Who God possesseth 
In nothing is wanting ; 
Alone God sufficeth. 



250 



THE MASQUE OF PANDORA. 



THE MASQUE OF PANDORA. 



THE WORKSHOP OF HEPHAESTUS. 

iiephaestus, standing before the statue of Pan- 
dora. 

Not fashioned out of Gold, like Hera's throne, 
Nor forged of iron like the thunderbolts 
Of Zeus omnipotent, or other works 
Wrought by my hands at Lemnos or Olympus, 
But moulded in soft clay, that unresisting 
Yields itself to the touch, this lovely form 
Before me stands perfect in every part. 
Not Aphrodite's self appeared more fair, 
When first upwafted by caressing winds 
She came to high Olympus, and the gods 
Paid homage to her beauty. Thus her hair 
Was cinctured ; thus her floating drapery 
Was like a cloud about hsr, and her face 
Was radiant with the sunshine and the sea. 

THE VOICE OF ZEUS 

Is thy work done, Hephaestus ? 



HEPHAESTUS. 



THE VOICE. 



It is finished ! 



Not finished till I breath the breath of life 
Into her nostrils, and she moves and speaks. 

HEPHAESTUS. 

Will she become immortal like ourselves ? 

THE VOICE. 

The form that thou hast fashioned out of clay 
Is of the earth and mortal ; but the spirit, 
The life, the exhalation of my breath, 
Is of diviner essence and immortal. 
The gods shall shower on her their benefactions, 
She shall possess all gifts : the gift of song, 
The gift of eloquence, the gift of beauty, 
The fascination and the nameless charm. 
That shall lead all men captive. 

HEPHAESTUS. 

Wherefore ? wherefore ? 

A wind shakes the house. 

I hear the rushing of a mighty wind 

Through all the halls and chambers of my house ! 

Her parted lips inhale it, and her bosom 

Heaves with the inspiration. As a reed 

Beside a river in the rippling current 

Bends to and fro, she bows or lifts her head. 

She gazes round about as if amazed ; 

She is alive ; she breathes, but yet she speaks not ! 

Pandora descends from the pedestal. 

CHORUS OF THE GRACES. 
AGLAIA. 

In the workshop of Hephsestus 

What is this I see ? 
Have the Gods to four increased us 

Who were only three ? 
Beautiful in form and feature, 

Lovely as the day, 
Can there be so fair a creature 

Formed of common clay ? 



O sweet, pale face ! O lovely eyes of azure. 
Clear as the waters of a brook that run 
Limpid and laughing in the summer sun ! 
O golden hair that like a miser's treasure 

In its abundance overflows the measure ! 
O graceful form, that cloudlike floatest on 
With the soft, undulating gait of one 
Who moveth as if motion were a pleasure ! 

By what name shall I call thee ? Nymph or Muse, 

Callirrhoe or Urania ? {Some sweet name 

Whose every syllable is a caress 

Would best befit thee ; but I cannot choose, 

Nor do I care to choose ; for still the same, 

Nameless or named, will be thy loveliness. 

EUPHROSYNE. 

Dowered with all celestial gifts, 

Skilled in every art 
That ennobles and uplifts 

And delights the heart, 
Fair on earth shall be thy fame 

As thy face is fair, 
And Pandora be the name 

Thou henceforth shalt bear. 



II. 
OLYMPUS. 

hermes, putting oil his sandals. 

Much must he toil who serves the Immortal Gods, 

And I, who am their herald, most of all. 

No rest have I, nor respite. I no sooner 

Unclasp the winged sandals from my feet. 

Than I again must clasp them, and depart 

Upon some foolish errand. But to-day 

The errand is not foolish. Never yet 

With greater joy did I obey the summons 

That sends me earthward. I will fly so swiftly 

That my caduceus in the whistling air 

Shall make a sound like the Pandaean pipes, 

Cheating the shepherds ; for to-day I go. 

Commissioned by high-thundering Zeus, to lead 

A maiden to Prometheus, in his tower, 

And by my cunning arguments persuade him 

To marry her. What mischief lies concealed 

In this design I know not ; but I know 

Who thinks of marrying hath already tak^n 

One step upon the road to penitence. 

Such embassies delight me. Forth I launch 

On the sustaining air, nor fear to fall 

Like Icarus, nor swerve aside like him 

Who drove amiss Hyperion's fiery steeds. 

I sink, I fly ! The yielding element 

Folds itself round about me like an arm, 

And holds me as a mother holds her child. 



III. 

TOWER OF PROMETHEUS ON MOUNT 

CAUCASUS. 

PROMETHEUS. 

I hear the trumpet of Alectryon 
Proclaim the dawn. The stars begin to fade, 
And all the heavens are full of prophecies 
And evil auguries. Blood-red last night 



THE MASQUE OF PANDORA. 



251 



I saw great Kronos rise ; the crescent moon 
Sank through the mist, as if it were the scythe 
His parricidal hand had flung far down 
The western steeps. O ye Immortal Gods, 
What evil are ye plotting and contriving ? 

HERMES and PANDORA at the threshold. 



I cannot cross the threshold. An unseen 
And icy hand repels me. These blank walls 
Oppress me with their weight ! 

PROMETHEUS. 

Powerful ye are, 
But not omnipotent. Ye cannot fight 
Against Necessity. The Fates control you, 
As they do us, and so far we are equals ! 



Motionless, passionless, companionless. 

He sits there muttering in his beard. His voice 

Is like a river flowing underground ! 



Prometheus, hail ! 

PROMETHEUS. 

Who calls me ? 

HEKMES. 

Dost thou not know me ? 

PROMETHEUS. 



PROMETHEUS. 



It is I. 



By thy winged cap 
know thee. Thou art 



Hast thou again been steal- 



And winged heels 

Hermes, 
Captain of thieves ! 

ing 

The heifers of Admetus in the sweet 
Meadows of asphodel ? or Hera's girdle ? 
Or the earth-shaking trident of Poseidon ? 

HERMES. 

And thou, Prometheus ; say, hast thou again 
Been stealing fire from Helios 1 chariot-wheels 
To light thy furnaces ? 



The Gods are not my friends, nor am I theirs. 
Whatever comes from them, though in a shape 
As beautiful as this, is evil only. 
Who art thou ? 



One who, though to thee unknown, 
Yet knoweth thee. 

PROMETHEUS. 

How shouldst thou know me, woman ? 

PANDORA. 

Who knoweth not Prometheus the humane ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

Prometheus the unfortunate ; to whom 
Both Gods and men have shown themselves un- 
grateful. 
When every spark was quenched on every hearth 
Throughout the earth, I brought to man the fire 
And all its ministrations. My reward 
Hath been the rock and vulture. 



But the Gods 



TROMETIIEUS. 



So early in the dawn 



Why comest thou hither 



HERMES. 

The Immortal Gods 
Know naught of late or early. Zeus himself 
The omnipotent hath sent me. 



PROMETHEUS. 



For what purpose ? 

HERMES. 

To bring this maiden to thee. 

PROMETHEUS. 

I mistrust 
The Gods and all their gifts. If they have sent 

her 
It is for no good purpose. 



What disaster 
Could she bring on thy house, who is a woman ? 



HERMES. 

At last relent and pardon. 

PROMETHEUS. 

They relent not ; 
They pardon not ; they are implacable, 
Revengeful, unforgiving ! 

HERMES. 

As a pledge 
Of reconciliation they have sent to thee 
This divine being, to be thy companion, 
And bring into thy melancholy house 
The sunshine and the fragrance of her youth. 

PROMETHEUS. 

I need them not. I have within myself 
All that my heart desires ; the ideal beauty 
Which the creative faculty of mind 
Fashions and folloAvs in a thousand shapes 
More lovely than the real. My own thoughts 
Are my companions ; my designs and labois 
And aspirations are my only friends. 

HERMES. 

Decide not rashly. The decision made 
Can never be recalled. The Gods implore not, 
Plead not, solicit not ; they only offer 
Choice and occasion, which once being passed 
Return no more. Dost thou accept the gift? 

PROMETHEUS. 

No gift of theirs, in whatsoever shape 
It comes to me, with whatsoever charm 
To fascinate my sense, will I receive. 
Leave me. 

PANDORA. 

Let us go hence. I will not stay. 

HERMES. 

We leave thee to thy vacant dreams, and all 
The silence and the' solitude of thought, 
The endless bitterness of unbelief. 
The loneliness of existence without love. 



252 



THE MASQUE OF PANDORA. 



CHORUS OF THE FATES. 



How the Titan, the defiant, 
The self-centred, self-reliant, 
Wrapped in visions and illusions, 
Robs himself of life's best gifts ! 
Tdl by all the storm-winds shaken, 
By the blast of fate o'ertaken, 
Hopeless, helpless, and forsaken, 
In the mists of his confusions 
To the reefs of doom he drifts ! 



Sorely tired and sorely tempted, 
From no agonies exempted, 
In the penance of his trial, 
And the discipline of pain ; 
Often by illusions cheated, 
Often baffled and defeated 
In the tasks to be completed, 
He, by toil and self-denial, 
To the highest shall attain. 



Tempt no more the noble schemer ; 
Bear unto some idle dreamer 
This new toy and fascination, 
This new dalliance and delight . 
To the garden where reposes 
Epimetheus crowned with roses, 
To the door that never closes 
Upon pleasure and temptation, 
Bring this vision of the night ! 

IV. 
THE AER. 

hermes, returning to Olympus. 

As lonely as the tower that he inhabits, 
As firm and cold as are the crags about him, 
Prometheus stands. The thunderbolts of Zeus 
Alone can move him ; but the tender heart 
Of Epimetheus, burning at white heat, 
Hammers and flames like all his brother's forges ! 
Now as an arrow from Hyperion's bow, 
My errand done, I fly, I float, I soar 
Into the air returning to Olympus. 

joy of motion ! O delight to cleave 

The infinite realms of space, the liquid ether, 
Through the warm sunshine and the cooling 

cloud, 
Myself as light as sunbeam or as cloud ! 
With one touch of my swift and winged feet, 

1 spurn the solid earth, and leave it rocking 

As rocks the bough from which a bird takes 
wing. 



THE HOUSE OF EPIMETHEUS. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Beautiful, apparition ! go not hence ! 
Surely thou art a Goddess, for thy voice 
Is a celestial melody, and thy form 
Self -poised as if it floated on the air ! 

PANDORA. 

No Goddess am I, nor of heavenly birth, 
But a mere woman fashioned out of clay 
And mortal as the rest. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Thy face is fair ; 
There is a wonder in thine azure eyes 



That fascinates me. Thy whole presence seems 
A soft desire, a breathing thought of love. 
Say, would thy star like Merope's grow dim 
If thou shouldst wed beneath thee ? 



PANDORA. 

I cannot answer thee. I only know 
The Gods have sent me hither. 



Ask me not ; 



EPIMETHEUS. 

I believe, 
And thus believing am most fortunate. 
It was not Hermes led thee here, but Eros, 
And swifter than his arrows were thine eyes 
In wounding me. There was no moment's space 
Between my seeing thee and loving thee. 
O, what a tell-tale face thou hast ! Again 
I see the wonder in thy tender eyes. 



They do but answer to the love in thine, 
Yet secretly I wonder thou shouldst love me, 
Thou knowest me not. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Perhaps I know thee better 
Than had I known thee longer. Yet it seems 
That I have always known thee, and but now 
Have found thee. Ah, I have been waiting long. 

PANDORA. 

How beautiful is this house ! The atmosphere 
Breathes rest and comfort, and the many cham- 
bers 
Seem full of welcomes. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

They not only seem, 
But truly are. This dwelling and its master 
Belong to thee. 

PANDORA. 

Here let me stay forever ! 
There is a spell upon me. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Thou thyself 
Art the enchantress, and 3 feel thy power 
Envelop me, and wrap my soul and sense 
In an Elysian dream. 

PANDORA. 

O, let me stay, 
How beautiful are all things round about me, 
Multiplied by the mirrors on the walls! 
What treasures hast thou here ! Yon oaken chest, 
Carven with figures and embossed with gold, 
Is wonderful to look upon ! What choice 
And precious things dost thou keep hidden in it ? 

EPIMETHEUS. 

I know not. 'T is a mystery. 



Hast thou never 



Lifted the lid ? 



EPIMETHEUS. 

The oracle forbids. 
Safely concealed there from all mortal eyes 
Forever sleeps the secret of the Gods. 
Seek not to know what they have hidden from 

thee, 
Till they themselves reveal it. 



THE MASQUE OF PANDORA. 



253 



PANDORA. 



EPIMETHEUS. 



As thou wilt. 



Let us go forth from this mysterious place. 
The garden walks are pleasant at this hour ; 
The nightingales among the sheltering boughs 
Of populous and many-nested trees 
Shall teach me how to woo thee, and shall tell me 
By what resistless charms or incantations 
They won their mates. 

PANDORA. 

Thou dost not need a teacher. 
They go out. 

CHORUS OF THE EUMENIDES. 

What the Immortals 
Confide to thy keeping, 
Tell unto no man ; 
Waking or sleeping, 
Closed be thy portals 
To friend as to foeman. 

Silence conceals it ; 
The word that is spoken 
Betrays and reveals it ; 
By breath or by token 
The charm may be broken. 

With shafts of their splendors 
The Gods unforgiving 
Pursue the offenders, 
The dead and the living ! 
Fortune forsakes them, 
Nor earth shall abide them, 
Nor Tartarus hide them ; 
Swift wrath overtakes them ! 

With useless endeavor, 

Forever, forever, 

Is Sisyphus rolling 

His stone up the mountain ! 

Immersed in the fountain, 

Tantalus tastes not 

The water that wastes not ! 

Through ages increasing 

The pangs that afflict him, 

With motion unceasing 

The wheel of Ixion 

Shall torture its victim ! 



VI. 
IN THE GARDEN. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Yon snoAv-white cloud that sails sublime in ether 
Is but the sovereign Zeus, who like a swan 
Flies to fair-ankled Leda ! 



Or perchance 
Ixion 1 s cloud, the shadowy shape of Hera, 
That bore the Centaurs. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

The divine and human, 

CHORUS OF BIRDS. 

Gently swaying to and fro, 
Rocked by all the winds that blow, 
Bright with sunshine from above 
Dark with shadow from below, 
Beak to beak and breast to breast- 
In the cradle of their nest, 
Lie the fledglings of our love. 



ECHO. 

Love ! love ! 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Hark ! listen ! Hear how sweetly overhead 
The feathered flute-players pipe their songs of love, 
And echo answers, love and only love. 

CHORUS OF BIRDS. 

Every flutter of the wing, 
Every note of song we sing, 
Every murmur, every tone, 
Is of love and love alone. 

ec no. 
Love alone ! 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Who would not love, if loving she might be 
Changed like Callisto to a star in heaven ? 



Ah, who would love, if loving she might be 
Like Semele consumed and burnt to ashes ? 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Whence knowest thou these stories ? 

PANDORA. 

Hermes taught me ; 
He told me all the history of the Gods. 

CHORUS OF REEDS. 

Evermore a sound shall be 
In the reeds of Arcady, 
Evermore a low lament 
Of unrest and discontent, 
As the story is retold 
Of the nymph so coy and cold, 
Who with frightened feet outran 
The pursuing steps of Pan. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

The pipe of Pan out of these reeds is made. 
And when he plays upon it to the shepherds 
They pity him, so mournful is the sound. 
Be thou not coy and cold as Syrinx was. 

PANDORA. 

Nor thou as Pan be rude and mannerless. 

Prometheus, without. 
Ho ! Epimetheus ! 

EPIMETHEUS. 

'T is my brother's voice 
A sound unwelcome and inopportune 
As was the braying of Silenus' ass, 
Heard in Cybefe's garden. 



PANDORA. 



I would not be found here 

She escapes among the trees. 

CHORUS OF DRYADES. 

Haste and hide thee, 

Ere too late. 

In these thickets intricate ; 

Lest Prometheus 

See and chide thee, 

Lest some hurt 

Or harm betide thee, 

Haste and hide thee ! 



Let me go. 
I would not see Min. 



"^ 



254 



THE MASQUE OF PANDORA. 



Prometheus, entering. 

Who was it fled from here ? I saw a shape 
Flitting among the trees. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

It was Pandora. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Epimetheus ! Is it then in vain 

That I have warned thee ? Let me now implore. 
Thou harborest in thy house a dangerous guest. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Whom the Gods love they honor with such guests. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Whom the Gods would destroy they first maka 
mad. 

EPIMETHEUS. • 

Shall I refuse the gifts they send to me ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

Reject all gifts that come from higher powers. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Such gifts as this are not to be rejected. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Make not thyself the slave of any woman. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Mike not thyself the judge of any man. 

PROMETHEUS. 

1 judge thee not ; for thou art more than man ; 
Tnou art descended from Titanic race, 

And hast a Titan's strength, and faculties 
That make thee godlike ; and thou sittest here 
Like Heracles spinning Omphale's flax, 
And beaten with her sandals. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

O my brother ! 
Thou drivest me to madness with thy taunts. 

PROMETHEUS. 

And me thou drivest to madness with thy follies. 

Come with me to my tower on Caucasus : 

See there my forges in the roaring caverns 

Beneficent to man, and taste the joy 

That springs from labor. Read with me the 

stars, 
And learn the virtues that lie hidden in plants, 
And all things that are useful. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

O my brother ! 
I am not as thou art. Thou dost inherit 
Oar father's strength, and I our mother's weak- 
ness : 
The softness of the Oceanides, 
The yielding nature that cannot resist. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Because thou wilt not. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Nay ; because I cannot. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Assert thyself; rise up to thy full height ; 
Shake from thy soul these dreams effeminate, 



These passions born of indolence and ease. 
Resolve, and thou art free. But breathe the air 
Of mountains, and their unapproachable summits 
Will lift thee to the level of themselves. 



EPIMETHEUS. 

The roar of forests and of waterfalls, 
The rushing of a mighty wind, with loud 
And undistinguishable voices calling, 
Are in my ear ! 

PROMETHEUS. 

O, listen and obey. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Thou leadest me as a child. I follow thee. 
They go out. 

CHORUS OF OREADES. 

Centuries old are the mountains ; 
Their foreheads wrinkled and rifted 
Helios crowns by day, 
Pallid Selene by night ; 
From their bosoms uptossed 
The snows are driven and drifted, 
Like Tithonus' beard 
Streaming dishevelled and white. 

Thunder and tempest of wind 
Their trumpets blow in the vastness ; 
Phantoms of mist and rain, 
Cloud and the shadow of cloud, 
Pass and repass by the gates 
Of their inaccessible fastness ; % 
Ever unmoved they stand, 
Solemn, eternal, and proud. 

VOICES OF THE WATERS. 

Flooded by rain and snow 
In their inexhaustible sources, 
Swollen by affluent streams 
Hurrying onward and hurled 
Headlong over the crags, 
The impetuous water-courses, 
Rush and roar and plunge 
Down to the nethermost world. 

Say, have the solid rocks 
Into streams of silver been melted, 
Flowing over the plains, 
Spreading to lakes in the fields ? 
Or have the mountains, the giants, 
The ice-helmed, the forest-belted, 
Scattered their arms abroad ; 
Flung in the meadows their shields ? 

VOICES OF THE WENDS. 

High on their turreted cliffs, 

That bolts of thunder have shattered, 

Storm-winds muster and blow 

Trumpets of terrible breath ; 

Then from the gateways rush, 

And before them routed and scattered 

Sullen the cloud-rack flies, 

Pale with the pallor of death. 

Onward the hurricane rides, 
And flee for shelter the shepherds ; 
White are the frightened leaves, 
Harvests with terror are white ; 
Panic seizes the herds, 
And even the lions and leopards, 
Prowling no longer for prey, 
Crouch in their caverns with fright. 

VOICES OF THE FOREST. 

Guarding the mountains around 
Majestic the forests are standing, 



THE MASQUE OF PANDORA. 



255 



Bright, are their crested helms, 
Dark is their armor of leaves ; 
Filled with the breath of freedom 
Each bosom subsiding, expanding, 
Now like the ocean sinks, 
Now like the ocean upheaves.- 

Planted firm on the rock. 
With foreheads stern and defiant, 
Loud they shout to the winds. 
Loud to the tempest they call ; 
Naught but Olympian thunders, 
That blasted Titan and Giant, 
Them can uproot and o'erthrow, 
Shaking the earth with their fall. 

CHORUS OF OREADES. 

These are the Voices Thrse 

Of winds and forests and fountains, 

Voices of earth and of air, 

Murmur and rushing of streams, 

Making together one sound, 

The mysterious voice of the mountains, 

Waking the sluggard that sleeps, 

Waking the dreamer of dreams. 

These are the Voices Three, 
That speak of endless endeavor, 
Speak of endurance and strength, 
Triumph and fulness of fame, 
Sounding about the world, 
An inspiration forever, 
Stirring the hearts of men, 
Shaping their end and their aim. 



VII. 

THE HOUSE OF EPIMETHEUS. 



PANDORA. 

Left to myself I wander as I will. 

And as my fancy loads me, through this house, 

Nor could I ask a dwelling more complete 

Were I indeed the Goddess that he deems me. 

No mansion of Olympus, framed to be 

The habitation of the Immortal Gods, 

Can be more beautiful. And this is mine 

And more than this, the love wherewith he 

crowns me. 
As if impelled by powers invisible 
And irresistible, my steps return 
Unto this spacious hall. All corridors 
And passages load hither, and all doors 
But open into it. Yon mysterious chest 
Attracts and fascinates me. Would I knew 
What there lies hidden ! But the oracle 
Forbids. Ah me ! The secret then is safe. 
So would it be if it were in my keeping. 
A crowd of shadowy faces from the mirrors 
That line these walls are watching me. I dare 

not 
Lift up the lid. A hundred times the act 
Would be repeated, and the secret seen 
By twice a hundred incorporeal eyes. 

She walks to the other side of the hall. 

My feet are weary, wandering to and fro, 
My eyes with seeing and my heart with waiting. 
I will lie here and rest till he returns, 
Who is my dawn, my da}-, my Helios 

Throws herself upon a couch, and falls aslecj). 

ZEPHYRUS, 

Come from thy caverns dark and deep, 
O son of Erebus and Night ; 
All sense of hearing and of sight 
Enfold in the serene delight 
And quietude of sleep ! 



Set all thy silent sentinels 
To bar and guard the Ivory Gate, 
And keep the evil dreams of fate 
And falsehood and infernal hate 
imprisoned in their cells. 

But open wide the Gate of Horn, 
Whence, beautiful as planets, rise 
The dreams of truth, with starry eyes. 
And all the wondrous prophecies 
And visions of the morn. 

CHORUS OF DREAMS FROM THE IVORY GATE. 

Ye sentinels of sleep, 

It is in vain ye keep 
Your drowsy watch before the Ivory Gate : 

Though closed the portal seems, 

The airy feet of dreams 
Ye cannot thus in walls incarcerate. 

We phantoms are and dreams 

Born by Tartarean streams, 
As ministers of the infernal powers ; 

O son of Erebus 

And Night, behold ! we thus 
Elude your watchful wardens on the towers ! 

From gloomy Tartarus 
The' Fates have summoned us 
' To whisper in her ear, who lies asleep, 
A tale to fan the fire 
Of her insane desire 
To know a secret that the Gods would keep. 

This passion, in their ire. 

The Gods themselves inspire, 
To vex mankind with evils manifold, 

So that disease and pain 

O'er the whole earth may reign. 
And nevermore return the Age of Gold. 

FAN DORA, waking. 

A voice said in my sleep : " Do not delay : 
Do not delay ; the golden moments fly ! 
The oracle hath forbidden ; yet not thee 
Doth it forbid, but Epimetheus only ! " 
I am alone. These faces in the mirrors 
Are but the shadows and phantoms of myself ; 
They cannot help nor hinder. No one sees me, 
Save the all-seeing Gods, who, knowing good 
And knowing evil, have created me 
Such as I am, and filled me with desire 
Of knowing good and evil like themselves. 

She approaches the chest. 

I hesitate no longer. Weal or woe, 

Or life or death, the moment shall decide. 

She lifts the I id. A dense mist rises from the chest 
and fills the room. Pandora falls senseless on 
the floor. Storm without. 

CHORUS OF DREAMS FROM THE GATE OF HORN. 

Yes, the moment shall decide ! 
It already hath decided ; 
And the secret once confided 
To the keeping of the Titan 
Now is flying far and wide. 
Whispered, told on every side, 
To disquiet and to frighten. 

Fever of the heart and brain, 
Sorrow, pestilence, and pain. 
Moans of anguish, maniac laughter, 
All the evils that hereafter 
Shall afflict and vex mankind, 
All into the air have risen 
From the chambers of their prison ; 
Only Hope remains behind. 



256 



THE MASQUE OF PANDORA. 



VIII. 
IN THE GARDEN. 

EPIMETIIEUS. 

The storm is past, but it hath left behind it 

Ruin and desolation. All the walks 

Are strewn with shattered boughs ; the birds are 

silent ; 
The flowers, downtrodden by the wind, lie dead ; 
The swollen rivulet sobs with secret pain ; 
The melancholy reeds whisper together 
As if some dreadful deed had been committed 
They dare not name, and all the air is heavy 
With an unspoken sorrow ! Premonitions, 
Foreshadowings of some terrible disaster 
Oppress my heart. Ye Gods, avert the oxen ! 

pandora, coming from the house. 

Epimetheus, I no longer dare 

To lift mine eyes to thine, nor hear thy voice, 
Being no longer worthy of thy love. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

What hast thou done ? 

PANDORA. 

Forgive me not, but kill me. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

What hast thou done ? 

PANDORA. 

I pray for death, not pardon. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

What hast thou done ? 

PANDORA. 

I dare not speak of it. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Thy pallor and thy silence terrify me ! 

PANDORA. 

1 have brought wrath and ruin on thy house ! 
My heart hath braved the oracle that guarded 
The fatal secret from us, and my hand 
Lifted the lid of the mysterious chest ! 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Then all is lost ! I am indeed undone. 

PANDORA. 

I pray for punishment, and not for pardon. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Mine is the fault, not thine. On me shall fall 

The vengeance of the Gods, for I betrayed 

Their secret when, in evil hour, I said 

It was a secret ; when, in evil hour, 

I left thee here alone to this temptation 

Why did I leave thee ? 

PANDORA. 

Why didst thou return ? 
Eternal absence would have been to me 
The greatest punishment. To be left alone 
And face to face with my own crime, had been 
Just retribution. Upon me, ye Gods, 
Let all your vengeance fall ! 



EPIMETHEUS. 

On thee and me. 
I do not love thee less for what is done, 
And cannot be undone. Thy very weakness 
Hath brought thee nearer to me, and henceforth 
My love will have a sense of pity in it, 
Making it less a worship than before. 



PANDORA. 

Pity me not ; pity is degradation. 
Love me and kdl me. 



EPIMETHEUS. 

Beautiful Pandora ! 
Thou art a Goddess still ! 



I am a woman ; 
And the insurgent demon in my nature, 
That made me brave the oracle, revolts 
At pity and compassion. Let me die ; 
What else remains for me ? 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Youth, hope, and love : 
To build a new life on a ruined life, 
To make the future fairer than the past, 
And make the past appear a troubled dream. 
Even now in passing through the garden walks 
Upon the ground I saw a fallen nest 
Ruined and full of rain ; and over me 
Beheld the uncomplaining birds already 
Busy in building a new habitation. 



Auspicious omen ! 



EPIMETHEUS. 

May the Eumenides 
Put out their torches and behold us not, 
And fling away their whips of scorpions 
And touch us not. 

PANDORA. 

Me let them punish. 
Only thi'ough punishment of our evil deeds, 
Only through suffering, are we reconciled 
To the immortal Gods and to ourselves. 



CHORUS OF THE EUMENIDES. 

Never shall souls like these 

Escape the Eumenides, 
The daughters dark of Acheron and Night ! 

Unquenched our torches glare, 

Our scourges in the air 
Send forth prophetic sounds before they smite. 

Never by lapse of time 

The soul defaced by crime 
Into its former seif returns again ; 

For every guilty deed 

Holds in itself the seed 
Of retribution and undying pain. 

Never shall be the loss 

Restored, till Helios 
Hath purified them with his heavenly fires ; 

Then what was lost is won, 

And the new life begun, 
Kindled with nobler passions and desires. 



THE HANGING OF THE CRANE. 



257 




They entertain 
A little angei unaware. 



THE HANGING OF THE CRANE. 



Tin; lights are out, and gone are all the guests 
That thronging came with merriment and jests 

To celebrate the Hanging of the Crane 
In the new house, — into the night are gone ; 
Bat still the fire upon the hearth burns on. 
And I alone remain. 



O fortunate, O happy day, 
When a new household finds its place 
Among the myriad homes of earth, 
Like anew star just sprung to birth, 
And rolled on its harmonio is way 
Into the boundless realms of space ! 
So said the guests in speech and song, 
As in the chimney, burning bright, 
We hung the iron crane to-ni^ht, 
And merry w r as the feast and long. 



II. 



And now I sit and muse on what may be, 
And in my vision see, or seem to see, 

Through floating vapors interfused with light, 
Shapes indeterminate, that gleam and fade, 
As shadows passing into deeper shade 
Sink and elude the sight. 

For two alone, there in the hall, 

Is spread the table round and small ; 

Upon the polished silver shine 

The evening lamps, but, more divine, 

The light of love shines overall ; 

Of love, that says not mine and thine, 

But ours, for ours is thine and mine. 

They want no guests, to come between 

Their tender glances like a screen, 

And tell them tales of land and sea, 

17 



And whatsoever may betide 
The great, forgotten world outside ; 
They want no guests ; they needs must be 
Each other's own best company. 



III. 

TriE picture fades ; as at a village fair 
A showman's views, dissolving into air, 

Again appear transfigured on the screen, 
So in my fancy this ; and now once more, 
In part transfigured, through the open door 
Appears the selfsame scene. 

S jated, I see the two again. 
But not alone ; they entertain 
A little angel unaware, 
With face as round as is the moon ; 
A royal guest with flaxen hair. 
Who, throned upon his lofty chair, 
Drams on the table with his spoon, 
Then drops it careless on the floor, 
To grasp at things unseen before. 

Are these celestial manners ? these 
The ways that win, the arts that please 
Ah yes ; consider well the guest. 
And whatsoe'er he does seems best ; 
He ruleth by the right divine 
Of helplessness, so lately born 
In purple chambers of the morn, 
As sovereign over thee and thine. 
He speaketh not ; and yet there lies 
A conversation in his eyes ; 
The golden silence of the Greek, 
The gravest wisdom of the wise. 
Not spoken in language, but in looks 
More legible than printed books, 
As if he could but would not speak. 
And now, O monarch absolute, 



f 



258 



THE HANGING OF THE CRANE. 



Thy power is put to proof ; for, lo ! 
Resistless, fathomless, and slow, 
The nurse comes rustling like the sea, 
And pushes back thy chair and thee, 
And so good night to King Canute. 



IV. 



As one who walking in a forest sees 

A lovely landscape through the parted trees, 

Then sees it not, for boughs that intervene ; 
Or as we see the moon sometimes revealed 
Through drifting clouds, and then again concealed, 
So I behold the scene. 

There are two guests at table now ; 
The king, deposed and older grown, 
No longer occupies the throne, — 
The crown is on his sister's brow ; 
A Princess from the Fairy Isles, 
The very pattern girl of girls, 
All covered and embowered in curls, 
Rose-tinted from the Isle of Flowers, 
And sailing with soft, silken sails 
From far-off Dreamland into ours. 
Above their bowls with rims of blue 
Four azure eyes of deeper hue 
Are looking, dreamy with delight ; 
Limpid as planets that emerge 
Above the ocean's rounded verge, 
Soft-shining through the summer night. 
Steadfast they gaze, yet nothing see 
Beyond the horizon of their bowls ; 
Nor care they for the world that rolls 
With all its freight of troubled souls 
Into the days that are to be. 



Again the tossing boughs shut out the scene, 
Again the drifting vapors intervene, 

And the moon's pallid disk is hidden quite ; 
And now I see the table wider grown, 
As round a pebble into water thrown 
Dilates a ring of light. 

I see the table wider grown, 

I see it garlanded with guests, 

As if fair Ariadne's Crown 

Out of the sky had fallen down ; 

Maidens within whose tender breasts 

A thousand restless hopes and fears, 

Forth reaching to the coming years, 

Flutter awhile, then quiet lie, 

Like timid birds that fain would fly, 

But do not dare to leave their nests ; — 

And youths, who in their strength elate 

Challenge the van and front of fate 

Eager as champions to be 

In the divine knight-errantry 

Of youth, that travels sea and land 

Seeking adventures, or pursues, 

Through cities, and through solitudes 

Frequented by the lyric Muse, 

The phantom with the beckoning hand, 

That still allures and still eludes. 

O sweet illusions of the brain ! 

O sudden thrills of fire and frost ! 

The world is bright while ye remain," 

And dark and dead when ye are lost ! 



VI. 



The meadow-brook, that seemeth to stand still 
Quickens its current as it nears the mill ; 



And so the stream of Time that lingereth 
In level places, and so dull appears, 
Runs with a swifter current as it nears 
The gloomy mills of Death. 

And now, like the magician's scroll, 

That in the owner's keeping shrinks 

With every wish he speaks or thinks, 

Till the last wish consumes the whole, 

The table dwindles, and again 

I see the two alone remain. 

The crown of stars is broken in parts ; 

Its jewels, brighter than the day, 

Have one by one been stolen away 

To shine in other homes and hearts. 

One is a wanderer now afar 

In Ceylon or in Zanzibar, 

Or sunny regions of Cathay ; 

And one is in the boisterous camp 

Mid clink of arms and horses' tramp, 

And battle's terrible array. 

I see the patient mother read, 

With aching heart, of wrecks that float 

Disabled on those seas remote, 

Or of some great heroic deed 

On battle-fields, were thousands bleed 

To lift one hero into fame. 

Anxious she bends her graceful head 

Above these chronicles of pain, 

And trembles with a secret dread 

Lest there among the drowned or slain 

She find the one beloved name. 



VII. 

After a day of cloud and wind and rain 
Sometimes the setting sun breaks out again, 
And, touching all the darksome woods with 
light, 
Smiles on the fields, until they laugh and sing, 
Then like a ruby from the horizon's ring 
Drops down into the night. 

What see I now ? The night is fair, 
The storm of grief, the clouds of care, 
The wind, the rain, have passed away ; 
The lamps are lit, the fires burn bright, 
The house is full of life and light : 
It is the Golden Wedding day. 
The guests come thronging in once more, 
Quick footsteps sound along the floor, 
The trooping children crowd the stair, 
And in and out and everywhere 
Flashes along the corridor 
The sunshine of their golden hair. 

On the round table in the hall 
Another Ariadne's Crown 
Out of the sky hath fallen down ; 
More than one Monarch of the Moon 
Is drumming with his silver spoon ; 
The light of love shines over all. 

O fortunate, O happy day ! 

The people sing, the people say. 

The ancient bridegroom and the bride, 

Smiling contented and serene 

Upon the blithe, bewildering scene, 

Behold, well-pleased, on every side 

Their forms and features multiplied, 

As the reflection of a light 

Between two burnished mirrors gleams, 

Or lamps upon a bridge at night 

Stretch on and on before the sight, 

Till the long vista endless seems. 



MORITURI SALUTAMUS. 



2o9 



MOKITTJKI SALUTAMUS. 
POEM. 

FOR THE FIFTIETH ANNIVERSARY OF THE CLASS 
OF 1825 IN BOWDOIN COLLEGE. 

Tempora labuntur, tacitisque senescimus annis, 
Et fugiimt freno non remorante dies. 

Ovid, Fantorum Lib. vi. 



" O C^sar, we who are about to die 
Salute you !" was the gladiators' cry 
In the arena, standing face to face 
With death and with tne Roman populace. 

O ye familiar scenes, — ye groves of pine. 
That once were mine and are no longer mine, — 
Thou river, widening through the meadows green 
To the vast sea, so near and yet unseen, — 
Ye halls, in whose seclusion and repose 
Phantoms of fame, like exhalations, rose 
And vanished, — we who are about to die 
Salute you ; earth and air and sea and sky. 
And the Imperial Sun that scatters down 
His sovereign splendors upon grove and town. 

Ye do not answer us ! ye do not hear ! 
We are forgotten ; and in your austere 
And calm indifference, ye little care 
Whether we come or go, or whence or where. 
What passing generations fill these halls. 
What passing voices echo from these walls. 
Ye heed not ; we are only as the blast, 
A moment heard, and then forever past. 

Not so the teachers who in earlier days 

Led our bewildered feet through learning's maze; 

They answer us — alas ! what have I said ? 

What greetings come there from the voiceless dead ? 

What salutation, welcome, or reply V 

What pressure from the hands tiiat lifeless lie ? 

They are no longer here ; they all are gone 

Into the land of shadows, — all save one. 

Honor and reverence, and the good repute 
That follows faithful service as its fruit, 
Be unto him, whom living we salute. 

The great Italian poet, when he made 

His dreadful journey to the realms of shade, 

Met there the old instructor of his youth, 

And cried in tones of pity and of ruth : 

" O, never from the memory of my heart 

Your dear, paternal image shall depart, 

Who while on earth, ere yet by death surprised, 

Taught me how mortals are immortalized ; 

Bow grateful am I for that patient care 

All my life long my language shall declare. " 

To-day we make the poet's words our own, 

And utter them in plaintive undertone ; 

Nor to the living only be they said, 

But to the other living called the dead, 

Whose dear, paternal images appear 

Not wrapped in gloom, but robed in sunshine 

here; 
Whose simple lives, complete and without flaw. 
Were part and parcel of great Nature's law ; 
Who said not to their Lord, as if afraid, 
" Here is thy talent in a napkin laid," 
But labored in their sphere, as men who live 
In the delight that work alone can give. 
Peace be to them ; eternal peace and rest, 
And the fulfilment of the great behest : 
"Ye have been faithful over a few things, 
Over ten cities shall ye reign as kings." 



And ye who fill the places we once filled, 
And follow in the furrows that we tilled, 
Young men, whose generous hearts are beating 

high, 
We who are old, and are about to die, 
Salute you ; hail you ; take your hands in ours. 
And crown you with our welcome as with 

flowers ! 

How beautiful is youth ! how bright it gleams 
With its illusions, aspirations, dreams ! 
Book of Beginnings, Story without End, 
Each maid a heroine, and each man a friend ! 
Aladdin's Lamp, and Fortunatus' Purse. 
That holds the treasures of the universe ! 
All possibilities are in its hands, 
No danger daunts it, and no foe withstands ; 
In its sublime audacity of faith, 
" Be thou removed ! " it to the mountain saith, 
And with ambitious feet, secure and proud, 
Ascends the ladder leaning on the cloud ! 

As ancient Priam at the Scaean gate 

Sat on the walls of Troy in regal state 

With the old men, too old and we;ik to fight, 

Chirping like grasshoppers in their delight 

To see the embattled hosts, with spear and 

shield, 
Of Trojans and Achaians in the field ; 
So from the snowy summits of our years 
We see you in the plain, as each appears. 
And question of you ; asking, " Who is he 
That towers above the others 1 Which may be 
Atreides, Menelaus, Odysseus, 
Ajax the great, or bold Idomeneus ? " 

Let him not boast who puts his armor on 
As he who puts it off, the battle done. 
Study yourselves ; and most of all note well 
Wherein kind Nature meant you to excel. 
Not every blossom ripens into fruit ; 
Minerva, the inventress of the flute, 
Flung it aside, when she her face surveyed. 
Distorted in a fountain as she played ; 
The unlucky Marsyas found it, and his fate 
Was one to make the bravest hesitate. 

Write on your doors the saying wise and old, 
"Be bold! be bold!" and evervwhere — "Be 

bold; 
Be not too bold ! " Yet better the excess 
Than the defect ; better the more than less ; 
Better like Hector in the field to die. 
Than like a perfumed Paris turn and fly. 

And now, my classmates ; ye remaining few 

That number not the half of those we knew, 

Ye, against whose familiar names not j T et 

The fatal asterisk of death is set, 

Ye I salute ! The horologe of Time 

Strikes the half-century with a solemn chime, 

And summons us together once again. 

The joy of meeting not unmixed with pain. 

Where are the others ? Voices from the deep 
Caverns of darkness answer me : " They sleep ! " 



2G0 



MORITURI SALUTAMUS. 



I name no names ; instinctively I feel 

Each at some well-remembered grave will kneel, 

And from the inscription wipe the weeds and 

moss, 
For every heart best knoweth its own loss. 

I see their scattered gravestones gleaming white 
Through the pale dusk of the impending night ; 
O'er all alike the impartial sunset throws 
Its golden lilies mingled with the rose; 
We give to each a tender thought, and pass 
Out of the graveyards with their tangled grass, 
Unto these scenes frequented by our feet 
When we were young, and life was fresh and 
sweet. 

What shall I say to you ? What can I say 
Better than silence is ? When I survey 
Tnis throng of faces turned to meet my own, 
Friendly and fair, and yet to me unknown. 
Transformed the very landscape seems to be; 
It is the same, yet not the same to me. 
So many memories crowd upon my brain, 
So many ghosts are in the wooded plain, 
I fain Avould steal away, with noiseless tread, 
As from a house where some one lieth dead. 

I cannot go ; — I pause ; — I hesitate ; 
My feet reluctant linger at the gate ; 
As one who struggles in a troubled dream 
To speak and cannot, to myself I seem. 

Vanish the dream ! Vanish the idle fears ! 
Vanish the rolling mists of fifty years ! 
Whatever time or space may intervene, 
I will not be a stranger in this scene. 
Here every doubt, all indecision ends ; 
Hail, my companions, comrades, classmates, 
friends ! 

Ah me ! the fifty years since last we met 
Seem to me fifty folios bound and set 
By Time, the great transcriber, on his shelves, 
Wherein are written the histories of ourselves. 
W T hat tragedies, what comedies, are there ; 
What joy and grief, what rapture and despair ! 
W r hat chronicles of triumph and defeat, 
Of struggle, and temptation, and retreat ! 
What records of regrets, and doubts, and fears ! 
What pages blotted, blistered by our tears ' 
What lovely landscape on the margin shine, 
What sweet, angelic faces, what divine 
And holy images of love and trust, 
Undimmed by age, unsoiled by damp or dust ! 

Whose hand shall dare to open and explore 
These volumes, closed and clasped forevermore ? 
Not mine. With reverential feet I pass ; 
I hear a voice that cries, ' ' Alas ! alas ! 
Whatever hath been written shall remain, 
Nor be erased nor written o'er again ; 
The unwritten only still belongs to thee : 
Take heed, and ponder well what that shall be." 

As children frightened by a thunder-cloud 

Are reassured if some one reads aloud 

A tale of wonder, with enchantment fraught, 

Or wild adventure, that diverts their thought, 

Let me endeavor with a tale to chase 

The gathering shadows of the time and place, 

And banish what we all too deeply feel 

Wholly to saj-, or wholly to conceal. 

In mediaeval Rome, I know not where, 

There stood an image with its arm in air, 

And on its lifted finger, shining clear, 

A golden ring with the device, "Strike here ! " 

Greatly the people wondered, though none guessed 

The meaning that these words but half expressed, 

Until a learned clerk, who at noonday 

With downcast eyes was passing on his way, 



Paused and observed the spot, and marked it well, 

Whereon the shadow of the finger fell ; 

And, coming back at midnight, delved, and found 

A secret stairway leading under ground. 

Down this he passed into a spacious hall, 

Lit by a flaming jewel on the wall ; 

And opposite in threatening attitude 

With bow and shaft a brazen statute stood. 

Upon its forehead, like a coronet, 

Were these mysterious words of menace set r 

' ' That which I am, I am ; my fatal aim 

None can escape, not even yon luminous flame ! " 

Midway the hall was a fair table placed, 
With cloth of gold, and golden cups enchased 
With rubies, and the plates and knives were gold, 
And gold the bread and viands manifold. 
Around it, silent, motionless, and sad, 
W^ere seated gallant knights in armor clad, 
And ladies beautiful with plume and zone, 
But they were stone, their hearts within were 

stone ; 
And the vast hall was filled in every part 
With silent crowds, stony in face and heart. 

Long at the scene, bewildered and amazed 
The trembling clerk in speechless wonder gazed ; 
Then from the table, by his greed made bold, 
He seized a goblet and a knife of gold, 
And suddenly from their seats the guests up- 

sprang, 
The vaulted ceiling with loud clamors rang, 
The archer sped his arrow, at their call, 
Shattering the lambent jewel on the wall, 
And all was dark around and overhead ; — 
Stark on the floor the luckless clerk lay dead ! 

The writer of this legend then records 
Its ghostly application in these words : 
The image is the Adversary old, s 

Whose beckoning finger points to realms of gold ; 
Our lusts and passions are the downward stair 
That leads the soul from a diviner air ; 
The archer, Death ; the flaming jewel, Life; 
Terrestrial goods, the goblet and the knife ; 
The knights and ladies, all whose flesh and bone 
By avarice have been hardened into stone ; 
The clerk, the scholar whom the love of pelf 
Tempts from his books and from his nobler self. 

The scholar and the world ! The endless strife, 

The discord in the harmonies 6f life ! 

The love of learning, the sequestered nooks, 

And all the sweet serenity of books ; 

The market-place, the eager love of gain, 

Whose aim is vanity, and whose end is pain ! 

But why, you ask me, should this tale be told 
To men grown old, or who are growing old ? 
It is too late ! Ah, nothing is too late 
Till the tired heart shall cease to palpitate. 
Cato learned Greek at eighty ; Sophocles 
Wrote his grand GEdipus, and Simonides 
Bore off the prize of verse from his compeers 
When each had numbered more than fourscore 

years. 
And Theophrastus, at fourscore and ten, 
Had but begun his Characters of Men. 
Chaucer, at Woodstock with the nightingales, 
At sixty wrote the Canterbury Tale* ; 
Goethe at Weimar, toiling to the last, 
Completed Faust when eighty years were past. 
These are indeed exceptions ; but they show 
How far the gulf-stream of our youth may flow 
Into the arctic regions of our lives, 
Where little else than life itself survives. 

As the barometer foretells the storm 
While still the skies are clear, the weather warm, 
So something in us, as old age draws near, 
Betrays the pressure of the atmosphere. 



CHARLES SUMNER.— CADENABBI A. 



201 



The nimble mercury, ere we are aware, 
Descends the elastic ladder of the air ; 
The telltale blood in artery and vein 
Sinks from its higher levels in the brain ; 
Whatever poet, orator, or sage 
May say of it, old age is still old age. 
It is the waning, not the crescent moon, 
The dusk of evening, not the blaze of noon : 
It is not strength, but weakness ; not desire, 
Bat its surcease; not the fierce heat of fire, 
The burning and consuming element, 
But that of ashes and of embers spent, 
In which some living sparks we still discern, 
Enough to warm, but not enough to burn. 



What then ? Shall we sit idly down and say 
The night hath come ; it is no longer day ? 
The night hath not yet come ; we are not quite 
C ut oft from labor by the failing light ; 
Something remains for us to do or dare ; 
Even the oldest tree some fruit may bear ; 
Not CEdipus Coloneus, or Greek Ode, 
Or tales of pilgrims that one morning rode 
Out of the gateway of the Tabard Inn, 
But other something, would we but begin ; 
For age is opportunity no less 
Than youth itself, though in another dress, 
And as the evening twilight fades away 
The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day. 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 
FLIGHT THE FOURTH. 

CHARLES SUMNER. 



Garlands upon his grave, 
And flowers upon his hearse, 
nd to the tender heart and brave 
The tribute of this verse. 

His was the troubled life, 
The conflict and the pain, 
The grief, the bitterness of strife, 
The honor without stain. 

Like Winkelried, he took 

Into his manly breast 
The sheaf of hostile spears, and broke 
• A path for the oppressed. 

Then from the fatal field 
Upon a nation's heart 
Borne like a warrior on his shield ! — 
So should the brave depart. 

Death takes us by surprise, 
And stays our hurrying feet ; 
The great design unfinished lies, • 
Our lives are incomplete. 

But in the dark unknown 
Perfect their circles seem, 
Even as a bridge's arch of stone 
Is rounded in the stream. 

Alike are life and death, 
When life in death survives, 
And the uninterrupted breath 
Inspires a thousand lives 

Were a star quenched on high, 
For ages would its light, 
Still travelling downward from the sky. 
Shine on our mortal sight. 

So when a great man dies, 
For years beyond our ken, 
The light he leaves behind him lies 
Upon the paths of men. 



TRAVELS BY THE FIRESIDE. 

The ceaseless rain is falling fast, 

And j'Onder gilded vane, 
Immovable for three days past, 

Points to the misty main. 

It drives me in upon myself 
And to the fireside gleams, 



To pleasant books that crowd my shelf, 
And still more pleasant dreams. 

I read whatever bards have sung 

Of lands beyond the sea, 
And the bright days when I was young 

Come thronging back to me. 

In fancy I can hear again 

The Alpine torrent's roar, 
The mule-bells on the hills of Spain, 

The sea at Elsinore. 

I see the convent's gleaming wall 
Rise from its groves of pine, 

And towers of old cathedrals tall, 
And castles by the Rhine. 

I journey on by park and spire, 

Beneath centennial trees, 
Through fields with poppies all on fire, 

And gleams of distant seas. 

I fear no more the dust and heat, 

No more I feel fatigue, 
While journeying with another's feet 

O'er many a lengthening league. 

Let others traverse sea and land, 
And toil through various climes, 

I turn the world round with my hand 
Reading these poets' rhymes. 

From them I learn whatever lies 
Beneath each changing zone, 

And see, when looking with their eyes, 
Better than with mine own. 



CADENABBIA. 



LAKE OF COMO. 



No sound of wheels or hoof -beat breaks 
The silence of the summer day, 

As by the loveliest of all lakes 
I while the idle hours away. 

I pace the leafy colonnade 

Where level branches of the plane 

Above me weave a roof of shade 
Impervious to the sun and rain. 

At times a sudden rush of air 
Flutters the lazy leaves o'erhead, 

And gleams of sunshine toss and flare 
Like torches down the path I tread. 



262 



MONTE CASSINO.— AMALFI. 



By Somariva's garden gate 

I make the marble stairs my seat, 

And hear the water, as I wait, 

Lapping the steps beneath my feet. 

The undulation sinks and swells 

Along the stony parapets, 
And far away the floating bells 

Tinkle upon the fisher's nets. 

Silent and slow, by tower and town 
The freighted barges come and go, 

Their pendent shadows gliding down 
By town and tower submerged below. 

The hills sweep upward from the shore, 
With villas scattered one by one 

Upon their wooded spurs, and lower 
Bellaggio blazing in the sun. 

And dimly seen, a tangled mass 

Of walls and woods, of light and shade, 

Stands beckoning up the Stelvio Pass 
Varenna with its white cascade. 

I ask myself, Is this a dream ? 

Will it all vanish into air ? 
Is there a land of such supreme 

And perfect beauty anywhere ? 

Sweet vision ! Do not fade away ; 

Linger until my heart shall take 
Into itself the summer day, 

And all the beauty of the lake. 

Linger until upon my brain 

Is stamped an image of the scene, 

Then fade into the air again, 
And be as if thou hadst not been. 



MONTE CASSINO. 

TERRA DI LAVORO. 

Beautiful valley ! through whose verdant meads 
Unheard the Garigliano glides along ; — 

The Liris, nurse of rushes and of reeds, 
The river taciturn of classic song. 

The Land of Labor and the Land of Rest, 
Where mediaeval towns are white on all 

The hillsides, and where every mountain's crest 
Is an Etrurian or a Roman wall. 

There is Alagna, where Pope Boniface 
Was dragged with contumely from his throne ; 

Sciara Colonna, was that day's disgrace 
The Pontiffs only, or in part thine own ? 

There is Ceprano, where a renegade 

Was each Apulian, as great Dante saith, 

When Manfred by his men-at-arms betrayed 
Spurred on to Benevento and to death. 

There is Aquinum, the old Volscian town, 
Where Juvenal was born, whose lurid light 

Still hovers o'er his birthplace like the crown 
Of splendor seen o'er cities in the night. 

Doubled the splendor is, that in its streets 
The Angelic Doctor as a school-boy played, 

And dreamed perhaps the dreams, that he repeats 
In ponderous folios for scholastics made. 

And there, uplifted, like a passing cloud 
That pauses on a mountain summit high, 

Monte Cassino's convent rears its proud 
And venerable walls against the sky. 

Well I remember how on foot I climbed 
The stony pathway leading to its gate ; 



Above, the convent bells for vespers chimed, 
Below, the darkening town grew desolate. 

Well I remember the low arch and dark, 

The courtyard with its well, the terrace wide, 

Prom which far down the valley, like a park 
Veiled in the evening mists, was dim descried. 

The day was dying, and with feeble hands 

Caressed the mountain tops ; the vales between 

Darkened ; the river in the meadow-lands 
Sheathed itself as a sword, and was not seen. 

The silence of the place was like a sleep, 

So full of rest it seemed ; each passing tread 

Was a reverberation from the deep 
Recesses of the ages that are dead. 

For, more than thirteen centuries ago, 
Benedict fleeing from the gates of Rome, 

A youth disgusted with its vice and woe, 
Sought in these mountain solitudes a home. 

He founded here his Convent and his Rule 

Of prayer and work, and counted work as 
prayer ; 

The pen became a clarion, and his school 
Flamed like a beacon in the midnight air. 

What though Boccaccio, in his reckless way, 
Mocking the lazy brotherhood, deplores 

The illuminated manuscripts, that lay 
Torn and neglected on the dusty floors ? 

Boccaccio was a novelist, a child 
Of fancy and of fiction at the best ! 

This the urbane librarian said, and smiled 
Incredulous, as at some idle jest. 

Upon such themes as these, with one young friar 
I sat conversing late into the night, 

Till in its cavernous chimney the wood-fire 
Had burnt its heart out like an anchorite. 

And then translated, in my convent cell, 
Myself yet not myself, in dreams I lay ; 

And, as a monk who hears the matin bell, 
Started from sleep ; already it was day. 

From the high window I beheld the scene 
On which Saint Benedict so oft had gazed, — 

The mountains and the valley in the sheen 
Of the bright sun, — and stood as one amazed. 

Gray mists were rolling, rising, vanishing ; 

The woodlands glistened with their jewelled 
crowns ; 
Far off the mellow bells began to ring 

For matins in the half -awakened towns. 

The conflict of the Present and the Past, 
The ideal and the actual in our life, 

As on a field of battle held me fast, 
While this world and the next world were at 
strife. 

For, as the valley from its sleep awoke, 

I saw the iron horses of the steam 
Toss to the morning air their plumes of smoke, 

And woke, as one awaketh from a dream. 



AMALFI. 

Sweet the memory is to me 

Of a land beyond the sea, 

Where the waves and mountains meet, 

Where, amid her mulberry-trees 

Sits Amalfi in the heat, 

Bathing ever her white feet 

In the tideless summer seas. 



THE SERMON OF ST. FRANCIS.— BELISARIUS. 



263 



In the middle of the town, 

From its fountains in the hills, 

Tumbling through the narrow gorge, 

The Canneto rushes down, 

Turns the great wheels of the mills, 

Lifts the hammers of the forge. 

'T is a stairway, not a street, 
That ascends the deep ravine, 
Where the torrent leaps between 
Rocky walls that almost meet. 
Toiling up from stair to stair 
Peasant girls their burdens bear ; 
Sunburnt daughters of the soil, 
Stately figures tall and straight, 
What inexorable fate 
Dooms them to this life of toil ? 

Lord of vineyards and of lands, 
Far above the convent stands. 
On its terraced walk aloof 
Leans a monk with folded hands, 
Placid, satisfied, serene, 
Looking down upon the scene 
Over wall and red-tiled roof ; 
Wondering unto what good end 
All this toil and traffic tend, 
And why all men cannot be 
Free from care and free from pain, 
And the sordid love of gain 
And as indolent as he. 

Where are now the freighted barks 
From the marts of east and west ? 
Where the knights in iron sarks 
Journeying to the Holy Land, 
Glove of steel upon the hand, 
Cross of crimson on the breast ? 
Where the pomp of camp and court ? 
Where the pilgrims with their prayers ? 
Where the merchants with their wares, 
And their gallant brigantines 
Sailing safely into port 
Chased by corsair Algerines ? 

Vanished like a fleet of cloud, 
Like a passing trumpet-blast, 
Are those splendors of the past, 
And the commerce and the crowd ! 
Fathoms deep beneath the seas 
Lie the ancient wharves and quays. 
Swallowed by the engulfing waves ; 
Silent streets and vacant halls, 
Ruined roofs and towers and walls ; 
Hidden from all mortal eyes 
Deep the sunken city lies : 
Even cities have their graves ! 

This is an enchanted land ! 
Round the headlands far away 
Sweeps the blue Salernian bay 
With its sickle of white sand : 
Further still and furthermost 
On the dim discovered coast 
Paestum with its ruins lies, 
And its roses all in bloom 
Seem to tinge the fatal skies 
Of that lonely land of doom. 
On his terrace, high in air, 
Nothing doth the good monk care 
For such worldly themes as these. 
From the garden just below 
Little puffs of perfume blow, 
And a sound is in his ears 
Of the murmur of the bees 
In the shining chestnut-trees ; 
Nothing else he heeds or hears. ' 
All the landscape seems to swoon 
In the happy afternoon ; 
Slowly o'er his senses creep 



The encroaching waves of sleep, 
And he sinks as sank the town, 
Unresisting, fathoms down, 
Into caverns cool and deep ! 

Walled about with drifts of snow, 
Hearing the fierce north-wind blow, 
Seeing all the landscape white, 
And the river cased in ice. 
Comes this memory of delight, 
Comes this vision unto me 
Of a long-lost Paradise 
In the land beyond the sea. 



THE SERMON OF ST. FRANCIS. 

Up soared the lark into the air, 
A shaft of song, a winged prayer, 
As if a soul, released from pain, 
Were flying back to heaven again. 

St. Francis heard ; it was to him 
An emblem of the Seraphim ; 
The upward motion of the fire. 
The light, the heat, the heart's desire. 

Around Assisi's convent gate 
The birds, God's poor who cannot wait, 
From moor and mere and darksome wood - 
Came flocking for their dole of food. 

"O brother birds," St. Francis said, 
11 Ye come to me and ask for bread, 
But not with bread alone to-day 
Shall ye be fed and sent away. 

" Ye shall be fed, ye happy birds, 

With manna of celestial words ; 

Not mine, though mine they seem to be, 

Not mine, though they be spoken through me. 

"O, doubly are ye bound to praise 

The great Creator in your lays ; 

He giveth you your plumes of down. 

Your crimson hoods, your cloaks of brown. 

"He giveth you 3 r our wings to fly 
And breathe a purer air on high, 
And careth for you everywhere, 
Who for yourselves so little care ! " 

With flutter of swift wings and songs 
Together rose the feathered throngs, 
And singing scattered far apart ; 
Deep peace was in St. Francis' heart. 

He knew not if the brotherhood 

His homily had understood ; 

He only knew that to one ear 

The meaning of his words was clear. - 



BELISARIUS. 

I am poor and old and blind ; 
The sun burns me, and the wind 

Blows through the city gate 
And covers me with dust 
From the wheels of the august 

Justinian the Great. 

It was for him I chased 

The Persians o'er wild and waste, 



264 SONGO RIVER. -THREE FRIENDS OF MINE. 


As General of the East ; 


SONGO RIVER. 


Night after night I lay 

In their camps of yesterday ; 




Nowhere such a devious stream, 


Their forage was my feast. 


Save in fancy or in dream, 


Winding slow through bush and brake 


For him, with sails of red, 


Links together lake and lake. 


And torches at mast-head, 
Piloting the great fleet, 

I swept the Afric coasts 

And scattered the Vandal hosts, 
Like dust in a windy street. 


Walled with woods or sandy shelf, 
Ever doubling on itself 
Flows the stream, so still and slow 
That it hardly seems to flow. 




Never errant knight of old, 


For him I won again 


Lost in woodland or on wold, 


The Ausonian realm and reign, 


Such a winding path pursued 


Rome and Parthenope ; 
And all the land was mine 


Through the sylvan solitude. 


From the summits of Apennine 


Never school-boy in his quest 


To the shores of either sea. 


After hazel-nut or nest, 




Through the forest in and out 


For him, in my feeble age, 


Wandered loitering thus about. 


I dared the battle's rage, 




To save Byzantium's state, 


In the mirror of its tide 


When the tents of Zabergan, 


. Tangled thickets on each side 


Like snow-drifts overran 


Hang inverted, and between 


The road to the Golden Gate. 


Floating cloud or sky serene. 


And for this, for this, behold ! 


Swift or swallow on the wing 


Infirm and blind and old, 


Sterns the only living thing, 


With gray, uncovered head, 
Beneath the very arch 


Or the loon, that laughs and flies 


Down to those reflected skies. 


Of my triumphal march, 

I stand and beg my bread ! 


Silent stream ! thy Indian name 
Unfamiliar is to fame ; 


Methinks I still can hear, 
Sounding distinct and near, 
The Vandal monarch's cry, 


For thou hidest here alone, 
Well content to be unknown. 


But thy tranquil waters teach 


As, captive and disgraced, 


Wisdom deep as human speech, 


With ma-jestic step he paced, — 


Moving without haste or noise 


"All, all is Vanity !" 


In unbroken equipoise. 


Ah ! vainest of all things 


Though thou turnest no busy mill, 


Is the gratitude of kings ; 


And art ever calm and still, 


The plaudits of the crowd 


Even thy silence seems to say 


Are but the clatter of feet 


To the traveller on his way : — 


At midnight in the street, 

Hollow and restless and loud. 


"Traveller, hurrying from the heat 
Of the city, stay thy feet ! 


But the bitterest disgrace 
Is to see forever the face 


Rest awhile, nor longer waste 
Life with inconsiderate haste ! 


Of the Monk of Ephesus ! 


"Be not like a stream that brawls 


The unconquerable will 


Loud with shallow waterfalls. 


This, too, can bear ; — I still 


But in quiet self-control 


Am Belisarius ! 


Link together soul and soul." 



A BOOK OF SOIOTETS. 



THREE FRIENDS OF MINE. 



When I remember them, those friends of mine, 
Who are no longer here, the noble three, 
Who half my life were more than friends to me, 
And whose discourse was like a generous wine, 

I most of all remember the divine 

Something, that shone in them, and made us see 
The archetypal man, and what might be 
The amplitude of Nature's first design. 

In vain I stretch my hands to clasp their hands ; 
I cannot find them. Nothing now is left 
But a majestic memory. They meanwhile 

Wander together in Elysian lands, 

Perchance remembering me, who am bereft 
Of their dear presence, and, remembering, smile, 



II. 



In Attica thy birthplace should have been, 
Or the Ionian Isles, or where the seas 
Encircle in their arms the Cyclades, 
So wholly Greek wast thou in thy stre::e 

And childlike jOy of life, O Philhelene ! 

Around thee would have swarmed the Attic 

bees ; 
Homer had been thy friend, or Socrates, 
And Plato welcomed thee to his demesne. 

For thee old legends breathed historic breath , 
Thou sawest Poseidon in the purple sea, 
And in the sunset Jason's fleece of gold ! 

O, what hadst thou to do with cruel Death, 
Who wast so full of life, or Death with thee, 
That thou shouldst die before thou hadst grown 
old! 



CHAUCER.— SHAKESPEARE.— MILTON.— KEATS.— THE GALAXY. 



205 



III. 

I stand again on the familiar shore, 

And hear the waves of the distracted sea 
Piteously calling and lamenting thee, 
And waiting restless at thy cottage door. 
The rocks, the sea-weed on the ocean floor, 
The willows in the meadow, and the free 
Wild winds of the Atlantic welcome me ; 
Then why shouldst thou be dead, and come no 
more ? 
Ah, why shouldst thou be dead, when common 
men 
Are busy with their trivial affairs, 
Having and holding ? Why, when thou hadst 
read 
Nature's mysterious manuscript, and then 
Wast ready to reveal the truth it bears, 
Why art thou silent ? Why shouldst thou be 
dead ? 



IV. 



River, that stealest with such silent pace 
Around the City of the Dead, where lies 
A friend who bore thy name, and whom these 

eyes 
Shall see no more in his accustomed place, 

Linger and fold him in thy soft embrace 

And say good night, for how the western skies 
Are red with sunset, and gray mists arise 
Like damps that gather on a dead man's face. 

Good night ! good night ! as we so oft have said 
Beneath this roof at midnight, in the days 
That are no more, and shall no more return. 

Thou hast but taken thy lamp and gone to bed ; 
I stay a little longer, as one stays 
To cover up the embers that still burn. 



V. 



The doors are all wide open ; at the gate 
The blossomed lilacs counterfeit a blaze, 
And seem to warm the air ; a dreamy haze 
Hangs o'er the Brighton meadows like a fate, 

And on their margin, with sea-tides elate, 
The flooded Charles, as in the happier days, 
Writes the last letter of his name, and stays 
His restless steps, as if compelled to wait. 

I also wait ! but they will come no more, 

Those friends of mine, whose presence satisfied 
The thirst and hunger of my heart. Ah ma ! 

They have forgotten the pathway to my door ! 
Somsthing is gone from nature since they died. 
And summer is not summer, nor can be. 



SHAKESPEARE. 

A vision as of crowded city streets, 
With human life in endless overflow ; 
'J hunder of thoroughfares ; trumpets that blow 
To battle ; clamor, in obscure retreats, 
| Of sailors landed from their anchored fleets ; 
Tolling of bells in turrets, and below 
Voices of children, and bright flowers that 

throw 
O'er garden-walls their intermingled sweets ! 
! This vision comes to me when I unfold 
The volume of the Poet paramount, 
Whom all the Muses loved, not one alone ; — 
Into his hands they put the lyre of gold, 

And, crowned with sacred laurel at their 

fount, 
Placed him as Musagetes on their throne. 



CHAUCER. 

An old man in a lodge within a park ; 
The chamber walls depicted all around 
With portraitures of huntsman, hawk, and 

hound, 
And the hurt deer. He listeneth to the lark. 

Whose song comes with the sunshine through the 
dark 
Of painted glass in leaden lattice bound ; 
He listeneth and he laugheth at the sound, 
Then writeth in a book like any clerk. 

He is the poet of the dawn, who wrote 
The Canterbury Tales, and his old age 
Made beautiful with song ; and as I read 

I hear the crowing cock, I hear the note 
Of lark and linnet, and from every page 
Rise odors of ploughed field or flowery mead. 



MILTOX. 

I PACE the sounding sea beach and behold 
How the voluminous billows roll and run, 
Upheaving and subsiding, while the sun 
Shines through their sheeted emerald far un- 
rolled, 

And the ninth wave, slow gathering fold by fold 
All its loose-flowing garments into one, 
Plunges upon the shore, and floods the dun 
Pale reach of sands, and changes them to gold. 

So in majestic cadence rise and fall 
The mighty undulations of thy song, 
O sightless bard, England's Maeonides 

And ever and anon, high over all 

Uplifted, a ninth wave superb and strong, 
Floods all the soul with its melodious seas. 



KEATS. 

The young Endymion sleeps Endymion's sleep ; 
The shepherd-boy whose tale was left half told ! 
The solemn grove uplifts its shield of gold 
To the red rising moon, and loud and deep 

The nightingale is singing from the steep ; 
It is midsummer, but the air is cold ; 
Can it be death ? Alas, beside the fold 
A shepherd's pipe lies shattered near his sheep. 

Lo ! in the moonlight gleams a marble white. 
On which I read : ''Here lieth one whose name 
Was writ in water." And was this the meed 

Of his sweet singing ? Rather let me write : 
11 The smoking flax before it burst to flame 
Was quenched by death, and broken the 
bruised reed." 



THE GALAXY. 

Torrent of light and river of the air, 

Along whose bed the glimmering stars are seen 
Like gold and silver sands in some ravine 
Where mountain streams have left their chan- 
nels bare ! 
The Spaniard sees in thee the pathway, where 
His patron saint descended in the sheen 
Of his celestial armor, on serene 
And quiet nights, when all the heavens were 
fair. 
Not this I see, nor yet the ancient fable 

Of Phaeton's wild course, that scorched the 
skies 



THE SOUND OF THE SEA.— IL PONTE VECCHIO DI FIRENZE. 



Where'er the hoofs of his hot coursers trod ; 
But the white drift of worlds o'er chasms of 
sable, 
The star-dust, that is whirled aloft and flies 
From the invisible chariot-wheels of God. 



THE SOUND OF THE SEA. 

The sea awoke at midnight from its sleep, 
And round the pebbly beaches far and wide 
I heard the first wave of the rising tide 
Rush onward with uninterrupted sweep ; 

A voice out of the silence of the deep, 
A sound mysteriously multiplied 
As of a cataract from the mountain's side, 
Or roar of winds upon a wooded steep. 

So comes to us at times, from the unknown 
And inaccessible solitudes of being, 
The rushing of the sea-tides of the soul; 

And inspirations, that we deem our own, 

Are some divine foreshadowing and foreseeing 
Of things beyond our reason or control. 



A SUMMER DAY BY THE SEA. 

The sun is set ; and in his latest beams 
Yon little cloud of ashen gray and gold, 
Slowly upon the amber air unrolled, 
The falling mantle of the Prophet seems. 

From the dim headlands many a lighthouse gleams, 
The street-lamps of the ocean ; and behold, 
O'erhead the banners of the night unfold ; 
The day hath passed into the land of dreams. 

O summer day beside the joyous sea ! 
O summer day so wonderful and white, 
So full of gladness and so full of pain ! 

Forever and forever shalt thou be 

To some the gravestone of a dead delight, 
To some the landmark of a new domain. 



The world belongs to those who come the last, 
They will find hope and strength as we have 
done. 



A NAMELESS GRAVE. 

u A SOLDIER of the Union mustered out," ~ 
Is the inscription on an unknown grave 
At Newport News, beside the salt-sea wave, 
Nameless and dateless ; sentinel or scout 

Shot down in skirmish, or disastrous rout 
Of battle, when the loud artillery drave 
Its iron wedges through the ranks of brave 
And doomed battalions, storming the redoubt. 

Thou unknown hero sleeping by the sea 
In thy forgotten grave ! with secret shame 
I feel my pulses beat, my forehead burn, 

When I remember thou hast given for me 
All that thou hadst, thy life, thy very name, 
And I can give thee nothing in return. 



SLEEP. 

Lull me to sleep, ye winds, whose fitful sound 
Seems from some faint JEolian harpstring 

caught ; 
Seal up the hiindred wakeful eyes of thought 
As Hermes with his lyre in sleep profound 

The hundred wakeful eyes of Argus bound ; 
For I am weary, and am overwrought 
With too much toil, with too much care dis- 
traught, 
And with the iron crown of anguish crowned. 

Lay thy soft hand upon my brow and cheek 

peaceful sleep ! until from pain released 

1 breathe again uninterrupted breath ! 
Ah, with what subtle meaning did the Greek 

Call thee the lesser mystery at the feast 
Whereof the greater mystery is death ! 



THE TIDES. 

I saw the long line of the vacant shore, 
The sea-weed and the shells upon the sand, 
And the brown rocks left bare on every hand, 
As if the ebbing tide would flow no more. 

Then heard I, more distinctly than before, 

The ocean breathe and its great breast expand, 
And hurrying came on the defenceless land 
The insurgent waters with tumultuous roar 

All thought and feeling and desire, I said, 
Love, laughter, and the exultant joy of song 
Have ebbed from me forever ! Suddenly o'er 
me 

They swept again from their deep ocean bed, 
And in a tumult of delight, and strong 
As youth, and beautiful as youth, upbore me. 



A SHADOW. 

I said unto myself, if I were dead, 

What would befall these children? What 

would be 
Their fate, who now are looking up to me 
For help and furtherance ? Their lives, I said, 

Would be a volume wherein I have read 
But the first chapters, and no longer see 
To read the rest of their dear history, 
-So full of beauty and so full of dread. 

Be comforted ; the world is very old, 

And generations pass, as they have passed, 
A troop of shadows moving with the sun ; 

Thousands of times has the old tale been told ; 



THE OLD BRIDGE AT FLORENCE. 

Taddeo Gaddi built me. I am old, 

Five centuries old. I plant my foot of stone 
Upon the Arno, as St. Michael's own 
Was planted on the dragon. Fold by fold 

Beneath me as it struggles, I behold 

Its glistening scales. Twice hath it overthrown 
My kindred and companions. Me alone 
It moveth not, but is by me controlled. 

I can remember when the Medici 

Were driven from Florence ; longer still ago 
The final wars of Ghiballine and Guelf. 

Florence adorns me with her jewelry ; 
And when I think that Michael Angelo 
Hath leaned on me, I glory in myself. 



IL PONTE VECCHIO DI FIRENZE. 

Gaddi mi fece ; il Ponte Vecchio sono ; 
Cinquecent' anni gia sub" Arno pianto 
II piede, come il suo Michele Fan to 
Pianto sul draco. Mentre ch' io ragiono 

Lo vedo torcere con flebil suono 

Le rilucenti scaglie. Ha questi affranto 
Due volte i miei maggior. Me solo intanto 
Neppure muove, ed io non 1' abbandono. 

Io mi rammento quando fur cacciati 
I Medici ; pur quando Ghibellino 
E Guelfo fecer pace mi rammento. 

Fiorenza i suoi giojelli m' ha prestati ; 
E quando pen so ch' Agnolo il divino 
Su me posava, insuperbir mi sento. 



NOTES. 



Page 19. Coplas de Mdnrique. 

This poem of Manrique is a great favorite in 
Spain. No less than four poetic Glosses, or 
running commentaries, upon it have been pub- 
lished, no one of which, however, possesses great 
poetic merit. That of the Carthusian monk, 
Rodrigo de Valdepenas, is the best. It is known 
as the Olosa del Cartujo. There is also a prose 
Commentary by Luis de Aranda. 

The following stanzas of the poem were found 
in the author's pocket, after his death on the 
field of battle. 

" O World ! so few the years we live. 

W< raid that the life which thou dost give 

Were life indeed ! 

Ala- ! thy sorrows fall so East, 

Our happiest hour is when at last 

The soul is freed. 

" Our clays are covered o er with grief, 

And sorrows neither few nor brief 

Veil all in gloom : 

Left desolate of real good. 

Within this cheerless solitude 

No pleasures bloom. 

" Thy pilgrimage begins in tears, 
And ends in bitter doubts and fears, 
Or dark despair ; 
Midway so many toils appear. 
That he who lingers longest here 
Knows most of care. 

"Thy goods are bought with many a groan, 

By the hot sweat of toil alone. 

And weary hearts ; 

Fleet-footed is the approach of woe, 

But with a lingering step and slow 

Its form departs." 

Page 25. King Christian. 

Nils Juel was a celebrated Danish Admiral* 
and Peder Wessel, a Vice-Admiral, who for 
his great prowess received the popular title of I 
Tordenskiold, or Thundershield. In childhood j 
he was a tailor's apprentice, and rose to his high 
rank before the age of twenty-eight, when he 
was killed in a duel 

Page 29. The Skeleton in Armor. 

This Ballad was suggested to me while riding 
on the sea-shore at Newport. A year or two 
previous a skeleton had been dug up at Fall 
River, clad in broken and corroded armor ; and 
the idea occurred to me of connecting it with the 
Round Tower at Newport, generally known hith- 
erto as the Old Windmill, though now claimed 
by the Danes as a work of their early ancestors. 
Professor Rafn, in the Memoires de la Societe 
Hoy ale des Anttquaires du Nbrd, for 1S3S-1S39, 
says : — 

1 1 There is no mistaking in this instance the 
style in which the more ancient stone edifices of 
the North were constructed, — the style which be- 
longs to the Roman or Ante-Gothic architecture, 
and which, especially after the time of Charle- 
magne, diffused itself from Italy over the whole 
of the West and North of Europe, where it con- 
tinued to predominate until the close of the 



twelfth century, — that style which some authors 
have, from one of its most striking characteris- 
tics, called the round arch style, the same which 
in England is denominated Saxon and sometimes 
Norman architecture. 

" On the ancient structure in Newport there 
are no ornaments remaining, which might possibly 
have served to guide us in assigning the probable 
date of its erection. That no vestige whatever is 
found of the pointed arch, nor any approxima- 
tion to it, is indicative of an earlier rather than 
of a later period. From such characteristics as 
remain, however, we can scarcelj r form any other 
inference than one, in which I am persuaded that 
all who are familiar with Old-Northern architec- 
ture will concur, that this building was 

ERECTED AT A PE1UOD DECIDEDLY NOT LATEB 

tii.vx the twelfth CEHTURT, This remark 
applies, of course, to the original building only, 
and not to the alterations that it subsequently 
received ; for there are several such alterations 
in the upper part of the building which cannot 
be mistaken, and which were most likely occa- 
sioned by its being adapted in modern times to 
various uses ; for example, as the substructure 
of a windmill, and latterly as a hay magazine. To 
the same times may be referred the windows, the 
fireplace, and the apertures made above the col- 
umns. That this building could not have been 
erected for a windmill, is what an architect will 
easily discern." 

I will not enter into a discussion of the point. 
It is sufficiently well established for the purpose 
of a ballad ; though doubtless many a citizen of 
Newport, who has passed his days within sight 
of the Round Tower, will be read}- to explain, 
with Sancho : "God bless me ! did I not warn you 
to have a care of what you were doing, for that 
it was nothing but a windmill ; and nobody could 
mistake it, but one who had the like in his head."' 

Page 31. Skoal ! 

In Scandinavia, this is the customary saluta- 
tion when drinking a health. I have slightly 
changed the orthographj'- of the word, in order 
to preserve the correct pronunciation. 

Page 32. The Luck of Ederiha.il. 

The tradition upon which this ballad is found- 
ed, and the " shards of the Luck of Edenhall,'" 
still exist in England. The goblet is in the pos- 
session of Sir Christopher Musgrave, Bart., of 
Eden Hall, Cumberland ; and is not so entirely 
shattered as the ballad leaves it. 

Page 33. The Elected Knight. 

This strange and somewhat mystical ballad is 
from Nyerup and Rahbek's Danske Viser of the 
Middle Ages. It seems to refer to the first 
preaching of Christianity in the North, and to 
the institution of Knight-Errantry. The three 
maidens I suppose to be Faith. Hope, and Chari- 
ty. The irregularities of the original have been 
carefully preserved in the translation. 



2GS 



NOTES. 



Page 33. The Children of the Lord's Supper. 

There is something patriarchal still lingering 
about rural life in Sweden, which renders it a fit 
theme for song Almost primeval simplicity 
reigns over that Northern land, — almost primeval 
solitude and stillness. You pass out from the 
gate of the city, and, as if by magic, the scene 
changes to a wild, woodland landscape. Around 
you are forests of fir. Overhead hang the long, 
fan-like branches, trailing with moss, and heavy 
Avith red and blue cones. Under foot is a carpet 
of yellow leaves ; and the air is warm and balmy. 
On a wooden bridge you cross a little silver 
stream ; and anon come forth into a pleasant and 
sunny land of farms. Wooden fences divide the 
adjoining fields. Across the road are gates, 
which are opened by troops of children. The 
peasants take off their hats as you pass ; you 
sneeze, and they cry, "God bless you!'" The 
houses in the villages and smaller towns are all 
built of hewn timber, and for the most part 
painted red. The floors of the taverns are strewn 
with the fragrant tips of fir boughs. In many 
villages there are no taverns, and the peasants 
take turns in receiving travellers. The thrifty 
housewife shows you into the best chamber, the 
walls of which are hung round with rude pictures 
from the Bible ; and brings you her heavy silver 
spoons, — an heirloom, — to dip the curdled milk 
from the pan. You have oaten cakes baked some 
months before, or bread with anise-seed and cori- 
ander in it, or perhaps a little pine bark. 

Meanwhile the sturdy husband has brought his 
horses from the plough, and harnessed them to 
your carriage. Solitary travellers come and go in 
uncouth one-horse chaises. Most of them have 
pipes in their mouths, and, hanging around their 
necks in front, a leather wallet, in which they 
carry tobacco, and the great banknotes of the 
country, as large as your two hands. You meet, 
also groups of Dalekarlian peasant-women, travel- 
ling homeward or townward in pursuit of work. 
They walk barefoot, carrying in their hands 
their shoes, which have high heels under the hol- 
low of the foot, and soles of birch bark. 

Frequent, too, are the village churches, stand- 
ing by the roadside, each in its own little Garden 
of Gethsemane. In the parish register great 
events are doubtless recorded. Some old king 
was christened or buried in that church ; and a 
little sexton, with a rusty key, shows you the 
baptismal font, or the coffin. In the churchyard 
are a few flowers, and much green grass; and 
daily the shadow of the church spire, with its 
long, tapering finger, counts the tombs, repre- 
senting a dial-plate of human life, on which the 
hours and minutes are the graves of men. The 
stones are flat, and large, and low, and perhaps 
sunken, like the roofs of old houses. On some 
are armorial bearings ; on others only the initials 
of the poor tenants, with a date, as on the roofs 
of Dutch cottages. They all sleep with their 
heads to the westward. Each held a lighted 
taper in his hand when he died ; and in his coffin 
were placed his little heart-treasures, and a piece 
of money for his last journey. Babes that came 
lifeless into the world were carried in the arms of 
gray-haired old men to the only cradle they ever 
slept in ; and in the shroud of the dead mother 
were laid the little garments of the child that 
lived and died in her bosom. And over this scene 
the village pastor looks from his window in the 
stillness of midnight, and says in his heart, "How 
quietly they rest, all the departed ! " 

Near the churchyard gate stands a poor-box, 
fastened to a post by iron bands, and secured by 
a padlock, with a sloping wooden roof to keep off 
the rain. If it be Sunday, the peasants sit on the 
church steps and con their psalm-books. Others 
are coming down the road with their beloved 



pastor, who talks to them of holy things from 
beneath his broad-brimmed hat. He speaks of 
fields and harvests, and of the parable of the 
sower, tha.t went forth to sow. He leads them 
to the Good Shepherd, and to the pleasant 
pastures. of the spirit-land. He is their patri- 
arch, and, like Meichizedek, both priest and 
king, though he has no other throne than the 
church pulpit. The women carry psalm-books 
in their hands, wrapped in silk handkerchiefs, 
and listen devoutly to the good man's words. 
But the young men, like Gallio, care for none of 
these things. They are busy counting the plaits 
in the kirtles of the peasant-girls, their number 
being an indication of the wearer's wealth. It 
may end in a wedding. 

I will endeavor to describe a village wedding in 
Sweden. It shall be in summer-time, that there 
may be flowers, and in a southern province, that 
the bride may be fair. The early song of the 
lark and of chanticleer are mingling in the clear 
morning air, and the sun, the heavenly bride- 
groom with golden locks, arises in the east, just 
as our earthly bridegroom with yellow hair arises 
in the south. In the yard there is a sound of 
voices and a trampling of hoofs, and horses are 
led forth and saddled. The steed that is to bear 
the bridegroom has a bunch of flowers upon his 
forehead, and a garland of corn-flowers around 
his neck. Friends from the neighboring farms 
come riding in, their blue cloaks streaming to the 
wind ; and finally the happy bridegroom, with a 
whip in his hand, and a monstrous nosegay in the 
breast of his black jacket, comes forth from his 
chamber; and then to horse and away, towards 
the village where the biide already sits and waits. 

Foremost rides the spokesman, followed by 
some half-dozen village musicians. Next comes 
the bridegroom between his two groomsmen, 
and then forty or fifty friends and wedding 
guests, half of them perhaps with pistols and 
guns in their hands. A kind of baggage-wagon 
brings lip the rear, laden with food and drink for 
these merry pilgrims. At the entrance of every 
village stands a triumphal arch, adorned with 
flowers and ribbons and evergreens ; and as they 
pass beneath it the wedding guests fire a salute, 
and the whole procession stops. And straight 
from every pocket flies a black jack, filled with 
punch or brandy. It is passed from hand to 
hand among the crowd ; provisions are brought 
from the wagon, and after eating and drinking 
and hurrahing, the procession moves forward 
again, and at length draws near the house of the 
bride. Four heralds ride forward to announce 
that a knight and his attendants are in the neigh- 
boring forest, and pray for hospitality. "How 
many are you ? " asks the bride's father. l ' At 
least three hundred, " is the answer ; and to this the 
host replies, "Yes ; were you seven times as many, 
you should all be welcome : and in token thereof 
receive this cup." Whereupon each herald re- 
ceives a can of ale ; and soon after the whole 
jovial company comes storming into the farmer's 
yard, and, riding round the May-pole, which 
stands in the centre, alights amid a grand salute 
and flourish of music. 

In the hall sits the bride, with a crown upon 
her head and a tear in her eye, like the Virgin 
Mary in old church paintings. She is dressed in 
a red bodice and kirtle with loose linen sleeves. 
There is a gilded belt around her waist; and 
around her neck strings of golden beads, and a 
golden chain. On the crown rests a wreath of 
wild roses, and below it another of cypress. 
Loose over her shoulders falls her flaxen hair; 
and her blue innocent eyes are fixed upon the 
ground. O thou good soul ! thou hast hard 
hands, but a soft heart ! Thou art poor. The 
very ornaments thou wearest are not thine. They 
have been hired for this great day. Yet art thou 



NOTES. 



269 



rich ; rich in health, rich in hope, rich in thy 
first, young, fervent love. The blessing of 
Heaven be upon thee ! So thinks the parish 
priest, as he joins together the hands of bride 
and bridegroom, saying, in deep, solemn tones, — 
U I give thee in marriage this damsel, to be thy 
wedded wife in all honor, and to share the half 
of thy bed, thy lock and key, and every third 
penny which you two may possess, or may in- 
herit, and all the rights which Upland's laws pro- 
vide, and the holy King Erik gave." 

The dinner is now served, and the bride sits 
between the bridegroom and the priest. The 
spokesman delivers an oration after the ancient 
custom of his fathers. He interlards it well 
with quotations from the Bible ; and invites the 
Saviour to be present at this marriage feast, as he 
was at the marriage feast in Cana of Galilee. 
The table is not sparingly set forth. Each makes 
a long arm, and the feast goes cheerly on. Punch 
and brandy pass round between the courses, and 
here and there a pipe is smoked while waiting for 
the next dish. They sit long at table ; but, as all 
things must have an end, so must a Swedish 
dinner. Then the dance begins. It is led off by 
the bride and the priest, who perform a solemn 
minuet together. Not till after midnight comes 
the last dance. The girls form a ring around the 
bride, to keep her from the hands of the married 
women, who endeavor to break through the magic 
circle, and seize their new sister. After long 
struggling they succeed ; and the crown is taken 
from her head and the jewels from her neck, and 
her bodice is unlaced, and her kirtle taken off; 
and like a vestal virgin clad all in white she goes, 
but it is to her marriage chamber, not to her 
grave ; and the wedding guests follow her with 
lighted candles in their hands. And this is a 
village bridal. 

Nor must I forget the suddenly changing 
seasons of the Northern clime. There is no long 
and lingering spring, unfolding leaf and blossom 
one by one ; no long and lingering autumn, 
pompous with many-colored leaves and the glow 
of Indian summers. But winter and summer 
are wonderful, and pass into each other. The 
quail has hardly ceased piping in the corn, when 
winter from the folds of trailing clouds sows 
broadcast over the land snow, icicles, and rattling 
hail. The days wane apace. Erelong the sun 
hardly rises above the horizon, or does not rise at 
all. The moon and the stars shine through the 
day ; only, at noon they are pale and wan, and in 
the southern sky a red, fiery glow, as of sunset, 
burns along the horizon, and then goes out. And 
pleasantly under the silver moon, and under the 
silent, solemn stars, ring the steel-shoes of the 
skaters on the frozen sea, and voices, and the 
sound of bells. 

And now the Northern Lights begin to burn, 
faintly at first, like sunbeams playing in the 
waters of the blue sea. Then a soft crimson 
glow tinges the heavens. There is a blush on the 
cheek of night. The colors come and go, and 
change from crimson to gold, from gold to crim- 
son. The snow is stained with rosy light. Two- 
fold from the zenith, east and west, flames a fiery 
sword ; and a broad band passes athwart the 
heavens like a summer sunset. Soft purple 
clouds come sailing over the sky, and through 
their vapory folds the winking stars shine white 
as silver. With such pomp as this is Merry 
Christmas ushered in, though only a single star 
heralded the first Christmas. And in memory 
of that day the Swedish peasants dance on 
straw ; and the peasant-girls throw straws at the 
timbered roof of the hall, and for every one that 
sticks in a crack shall a groomsman come to their 
wedding. Merry Christmas indeed ! For pious 
souls there shall be church songs and sermons, 
but for Swedish peasants, brandy and nut-brown 



ale in wooden bowls ; and the great Yule-cake 
crowned with a cheese, and garlanded with apples, 
and upholding a three-armed candlestick over the 
Christmas feast. They may tell tales, too, of 
Jons Lundsbracka, and Lunkenfus, and the great 
Riddar Pinke of Pingsdaga.* 

And now the glad, leafy midsummer full of 
blossoms and the song of nightingales, is come ! 
Saint John has taken the flowers and festival of 
heathen Balder ; and in every village there is a 
May-pole fifty feet high, with wreaths and 
roses and ribbons streaming in the wind, and a 
noisy weather-cock on top, to tell the village 
whence the wind cometh and whither it goeth. 
The sun does not set till ten o'clock at night ; 
and the children are at play in the streets an hour 
later. The windows and doors are all open, and 
you may sit and read till midnight without a 
candle. O, how beautiful is the summer night, 
which is not night, but a sunless yet unclouded 
day, descending upon earth with dews and shad- 
ows and refreshing coolness-! How beautiful the 
long, mild twilight, which like a silver clasp 
unites to-day with yesterday ! How beautiful 
the silent hour, when Morning and Evening thus 
sit together, hand in hand, beneath the starless 
sky of midnight ! From the church-tower in the 
public square the bell tolls the hour, with a soft, 
musical chime; and the watchman, whose watch- 
tower is the belfry, blows a blast in his horn for 
each stroke of the hammer, and four times, to 
the four corners of the heavens, in a sonorous 
voice he chants, — 

" Ho ! watchman, ho ' 
Twelve is the clock 1 
God keep our town 
From tire and brand 
And hostile hand ! 
Twelve is the clock !" 

From his swallow's nest in the belfry he can see 
the sun all night long ; and farther north the 
priest stands at his door in the warm midnight, 
and lights his pipe with a common burning-glass. 

Page 33. The Feast of the Leafy Pavilions. 

In Swedish, Lbfhyddoh'ogtldcn, the Leaf- 
huts'-high-tide. 

Page 33. Hbrberg. 

The peasant-painter of Sweden. He is known 
chiefly by his altar-pieces in the village churches. 

Page 33 Wallin 

A distinguished pulpit-orator and poet. He 
is particularly remarkable for the beauty and sub- 
limity of his psalms. 

Page 45. As Lope says. 

■ ' La colera 
de un Espaiiol sentado no se templa, 
sino le representan en dos horas 
hasta el final juicio desde el Genesis.'" 

Lope 



Tega. 



Page 46. Abernuneio Satanas! 



l 'Digo, Sehora, respondid Sancho, lo que ten- 
go dicho, que de los azotes abernuneio. Abre- 
nuncio, habeis de decir, Sancho, y no como decis, 
dijo el Duque.'' — Don Quixote, Part H., ch. 35. 

Page 48. Fray Carrlllo. 

The allusion here is to a Spanish Epigram 

" Siempre Fray Carrillo estas 
cansandonos aca fuera : 

quien en tu celda estuviera 
para no verte jamas ! " 

Buhl de Faber. Floresta, No. 611. 

* Titles of Swedish popidar tales. 



270 



NOTES. 



Page 48. Padre Francisco. 

This is from an Italian popular song. 

" ' Padre Francesco, 

Padre Francesco ! ' 
— Cosa volete del Padre Francesco ? — 

' V ' e una bella ragazzina 

Che si vuole confessar ! ' 
"Fatte V entrare. fatte 1' entrare ! 
Che la voglio confessare. " 

Kopisch. Volksthiimliche Poesien aus alien Mund- 
arten Jtaliens unci seiner Inseln, p. 194. 

Page 49. Ave ! cujus calcem dare. 

From a monkish hymn of the twelfth century, 
in Sir Alexander Croke's Essay on the Origin, 
Progress, and Decline of Rhyming Latin Verse, 
p. 109. 

Page 50. The gold of the Busne. 
Busne is the name given by the Gypsies to all 
who are not of their race. 

Page 51. Count of the Cale's. 

The Gypsies call themselves Gales. See Bor- 
row's valuable and extremely interesting work, 
The Zincali ; or an Account of the Gypsies in 
Spain. London, 1841. 

Page 52. Asks if his money-dags would rise. 

u ,; Y volviendome a un lado, vi a un Avarien- 
to, que estaba preguntando a otro (que por haber 
sido embalsamado, y estar lexos sus tripas no 
hablaba, porque no habian llegado si habian de 
resucitar aquel diatodos los enterrados), si resuci- 
tarian unos bolsones suyos ? " — El Sueno de 
las Calaveras. 

Page 52. And amen ! said my Cid the Cam- 
peaclor. 

A line from the ancient Poema del Cid. 

" Amen, dixo Mio Cid el Campeador." 

Line 3044. 

Page 52. The river of his thoughts. 

This expression is from Dante ; 

'• Si che chiai-o 
Per essa scenda della mente il flume. " 

Byron has likewise used the expression ; 
though I do not recollect in which of his poems. 

Page 52. Mari Franca. 

A common Spanish proverb, used to turn aside 
a question one does not wish to answer ; 

"Porque caso Mari Franca 

quatro leguas de Salamanca. " 

Page 52. Ay, soft, emerald eyes. 

The Spaniards, with good reason, consider this 
color of the eye as beautiful, and celebrate it in 
song ; as, for example, in the well-known Villan- 
cico : 

"Ay ojuelos verdes, 
ay los mis ojuelos, 
ay hagan los cielos 
que de mi te acuerdes ! 

Tengo confianza 
de mis verdes ojos." 

Bohl de Faber. Floresta, No. 255. 

Dante speaks of Beatrice's eyes as emeralds. 
Purgatorio, xxxi. 116. Lami says, in his Anno- 
tazioni, "Erano i suoi occhi d' un turchino ver- 
diccio, simile a quel del mare." 

Page 52. The Avenging Child. 

See the ancient Ballads of El Infante Ven- 
gador, and Calayons. 



Page. 53. All are sleeping. 
From the Spanish. Bohl de Faber, Floresta, 
No. 282. 

Page 56. Good night. 

From the Spanish ; as are likewise the songs 
immediately following, and that which com- 
mences the first scene of Act III. 

Page 60. The evil eye. 

" In the Gitano language, casting the evil eye 
is called Querelar nasula, which simply means 
making sick, and which, according to the com- 
mon superstition, is accomplished by casting an 
evil look at people, especially children, who, 
from the tenderness of their constitution, are 
supposed to be more easily blighted than those of 
a more mature age. After receiving the evil 
glance, they fall sick, and die in a few hours. 

" The Spaniards have very little to say respect- 
ing the evil eye, though the belief in it is very 
prevalent, especially in Andalusia, amongst the 
lower orders. A stag's horn is considered a good 
safeguard, and on that account a small horn, tip- 
ped with silver, is frequently attached to the 
children's necks by means of a cord braided from 
the hair of a black mare's tail. Should the evil 
glance be cast, it is imagined that the horn re- 
ceives it, and instantly snaps asunder. Such 
horns may be purchased in some of the silver- 
smiths' shops at Seville." — Borrow's Zincali, 
Vol. I. ch. ix. 

Page 60. On the top of a mountain I stand. 

This and the following scraps of song are from 
Borrow's Zincali; or an Account of the Gypsies 
in Spain. 

Tne Gypsy words in the same scene may be 
thus interpreted : 

John-Dorados, pieces of gold. 

Pigeon, a simpleton. 

In your morocco, stripped. 

Doves, sheets. 

Moon, a shirt. 

Chirelin, a thief. 

Murcigalleros,those who steal at nightfall. 

Pastilleros, footpads. 

Hermit, highway-robber. 

Planets, candles. 

Commandments, the fingers. 

Saint Martin asleep, to rob a person asleep. 

Lanterns, eyes. 

Goblin, police-officer. 

Papagayo, a spy. 

Vineyards and Dancing John, to take flight. 

Page 62. If thou art sleepi> g, maiden. 
From the Spanish ; as is likewise the song of 
the Contrabandista on page 62. 

Page 65. All the Foresters of Flanders. 

The title of Foresters was given to the early 
governors of Flanders, appointed by the kings of 
France. Lyderick du Bucq, in the days of Clo- 
taire the Second, was the first of them ; and 
Beaudoin Bras-de-Fer, who stole away the fair 
Judith, daughter of Charles the Bald, from the 
French court, and married her in Bruges, was 
the last. After him the title of Forester was 
changed to that of Count. Philippe d'Alsace, 
Guy de Dampierre, and Louis de Crecy, coming 
later in the order of time, were therefore rather 
Counts than Foresters. Philippe went twice to 
the Holy Land as a Crusader, and died of the 
plague at St. Jean-d'Acre, shortly after the cap- 
ture of the city by the Christians. Guy de Dam- 
pierre died in the prison of Compiegne. Louis de 
Crecy was son and successor of Robert de Beth- 
une, who strangled his wife, Yolande de Bour- 



NOTES. 



271 



gogne, with the bridle of his horse, for having cavaliers of that day wore but a single spur each, 
poTsoned, at the age of eleven years, Charles, his these vouched to God for the violent and bloody 
son by his first wife, Blanche d'Anjou. death of seven hundred of his creatures. 



Page 65. Stately dames, like queens attended. 

When Philippe-le-Bd, king of France, visited 
Flanders with his queen, she was so astonished at 
the magnificence of the dames of Bruges, that she 
exclaimed : " Je croyais etre seule reine ici, mais 
il parait que ceux de Flandre qui se trouvent dans 
nos prisons sont tons des princes, car leurs 
femmes sont habilees comme des princesses, et 
desreines." 

When the burgomasters of Ghent, Bruges, 
and Ypres went to Paris to pay homage to King 
John, in 1351, they were received with great 
pomp and distinction ; but, being invited to 
a festival, they observed that their seats at table 
were not furnished with cushions; whereupon, to 
make known their displeasure at this want of re- 
gard to their dignity, they folded their rich- 
ly embroidered cloaks and seated themselves upon 
them. On rising from table, they left their cloaks 
behind them, and, being informed of their appa- 
rent forgetf ulness, Simon van Eertrycke, burgo- 
master of Bruges, replied, " We Flemings are 
not in the habit of carrying away our cushions 
after dinner." 

Page 05. Knights who bore the Fleece of 
Gold. 

Philippe de Bourgogne, surnamed Le Bon, es- 
poused Isabella of Portugal on the 10th of Jan- 
uary, 1430 ; and on the same day instituted the 
famous order of the Fleece of Gold. 

Page 65. I beheld the gentle Mary. 

Marie de Valois, Duchess of Burgundy, was 
left by the death of her father, Charles-le- 
Temeraire, at the age of twenty, the richest 
heiress of Europe. She came to Bruges, as 
Countess of Flanders, in 1477, and in the same 
year was married by proxy to the Archduke 
Maximilian. According to the custom of the 
time, the Duke of Bavaria, Maximilian's substi- 
tute, slept with the princess. They were both in 
complete dress, separated by a naked sword, and 
attended by four armed guards. Marie was 
adored by her subjects for her gentleness and her 
many other virtues. 

Maximilian was son of the Emperor Frederick 
the Third, and is the same person mentioned 
afterwards in the poem of Nuremberg as the 
Kaiser Maximilian, and the hero of Pfinzing's 
poem of Tenerdank. Having been imprisoned by 
the revolted burghers of Bruges, they refused to 
release him, till he consented to kneel in the pub- 
lic square, and to swear on the Holy Evangelists 
and the body of Saint Donatus, that he would 
not take vengeance upon them for their rebellion. 

Page 65. The bloody battle of the Spurs of 
Gold, 

This battle* the most memorable in Flemish 
history, was fought under the walls of Couitray, 
on the 11th of July, 1302, between the French and ! 
the Flemings, the former commanded by Robert 
Comte d'Artois, and the latter by Guillaume de 
Juliers, and Jean, Comte de Namui. The French 
army was completely routed, with a loss of 
twenty thousand infantry and seven thousand 
cavalry ; among whom were sixty-three princes, 
dukes, and counts, seven hundred lords-banneret, 
and eleven hundred noblemen. The flower of the 
French nobility perished on that day ; to which 
history has given the name of the Journee des 
Eperons cV Or, from the great number of golden 
spurs found on the field of battle. Seven hun- 
dred of them were hung up as a trophy in the 
church of Notre Dame de Couitray ; and, as the 



Page 65. Saw the fight of Minne water. 

When the inhabitants of Bruges were digging 
a canal at Minnewater, to bring the waters of the 
Lys from Deynze to their city, they were attacked 
and routed by the citizens of Ghent, whose com- 
merce would have been much injured by the canal, 
They were led by Jean Lyons, captain of a mili- 
tary company at Ghent, called the Chaperons 
Blancs. He had great sway over the turbulent 
populace, who, in those prosperous times of the 
city, gained an easy livelihood by laboring two or 
three days in the week, and had the remaining 
four or five to devote to public affairs. The fight 
at Minnewater was followed by open rebellion 
against Louis de Maele, the Count of Flanders 
and Protector of Bruges. His superb chateau of 
Wondelghem was pillaged and burnt ; and the 
insurgents forced the gates of Bruges, and entered 
in triumph, with Lyons mounted at their head. 
A few days afterwards he died suddenly, perhaps 
by poison. 

Meanwhile the insurgents received a check at 
the village of Nevele ; and two hundred of them 
perished in the church, which was burned by the 
Count's orders. One of the chiefs, Jean de Lan- 
noy, took refuge in the belfry. From the summit 
of the tower he held forth his purse filled with 
gold, and begged for deliverance. It was in vain. 
His enemies cried to him from below to save him- 
self as best he might ; and, half suffocated with 
smoke and flame, he threw himself from the 
tower and perished at their feet. Peace was 
soon afterwards established, and the Count re- 
tired to faithful Bruges. 

Page 65. The Golden Dragon's nest. 

The Golden Dragon, taken from the church of 
St. Sophia, at Constantinople, in one of the 
Crusades, and placed on the belfry of Bruges, was 
afterwards transported to Ghent by Philip van 
Artevelde, and still adorns the belfry of that 
city. 

The inscription on the alarm-bell at Ghent is 
" Mynen naem is Roland : als ik klep is er brand, 
and als ik luy is er victor ie in het land" My 
name is Roland ; when I toll there is fire, and 
when I ring there is victory in the land. 

Page 66. That their great imperial city 

stretched its hand through every clime. 

An old popular proverb of the town runs 
thus : — 

" Xiirnberg's Hand 
Geht durch alle Laiid." 

Nuremberg's hand 
Goes through every land. 

Page 66. Sat the poet Mclchior singing Kaiser 
Maxim ilia it's ^> ra ise. 

Melchior Pfinzing was one of the most celebrat- 
ed German poets of the sixteenth century. The 
hero of his Teucrdank was the reigning emperor, 
Maximilian ; and the poem was to the Germans 
of that day what the Orlando Furioso was to the 
Italians. Maximilian is mentioned before, in the 
Be fry of Bruges. See page 77. 

Page 66. In the church of sainted Sebalcl 'sleeps 
enshrined his holy dust. 

The tomb of Saint Sebald, in the church which 
bears his narnp, is one of the richest works of art 
in Nuremberg. It is of bronze, and was cast by 
Peter Vischer and his sons, who labored upon it 
thirteen years. It is adorned with nearly one 
hundred figures, among which those of the Twelve 
Apostles are conspicuous for size and beauty. 



NOTES. 



Page GO. In the church of sainted Lawrence 
stands apix of sculpture rare. 

This pix, or tabernacle for the vessels of the 
sacrament, is by the hand of Adam Kraft. It is 
an exquisite piece of sculpture in white stone, and 
rises to the height of sixty-four feet. It stands 
in the choir, whose richly painted windows cover 
it with varied colors. 

Page 67. Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters. 

The Twelve Wise Masters was the title of the 
original corporation of the Mastersingers. Hans 
Sachs, the cobbler of Nuremberg, though not one 
of the original Twelve, was the most renoAvned of 
the Mastersingers, as well as the most voluminous. 
He flourished in the sixteenth century, and left 
behind him thirty-four folio volumes of manu- 
script, containing two hundred and eight plays, 
one thousand and seven hundred comic tales, and 
between four and five thousand lyric poems. 

Page 67. As in Adam Puschman' l s song. 
Adam Puschman, in his poem on the death of 
Hans Sachs, describes him as he appeared in a 
vision : — 

"An old man, 
Gray and white, and dove-like, 
Who had, in sooth, a great beard, 
And read in a fair, great book, 
Beautiful with golden clasps." 

Page 69. The Occultation of Orion. 

Astronomically speaking, this title is incorrect ; 
as I apply to a constellation what can properly be 
applied to some of its stars only. But my obser- 
vation is made from the hill of song, and nofc from 
that of science ; and will, I trust, be found suffi- 
ciently accurate for the present purpose. 

Page 71. Who, unharmed, on his tusks once 
caught the bolts of the thunder. 

"A delegation of warriors from the Delaware 
tribe having visited the governor of Virginia, 
during the Revolution, on matters of business, 
after these had been discussed and settled in 
council, the governor asked them some questions 
relative to their country, and, among others, what 
they knew or had heard of the animal whose 
bones were found at the Saltlicks on the Ohio. 
Their chief speaker immediately put himself into 
an attitude of oratory, and with a pomp suited 
to what he conceived the elevation of his subject, 
informed him that it was a tradition handed 
down from their fathers, ; that in ancient times a 
herd of these tremendous animals came to the 
Big-bone licks, and began an universal destruc- 
tion of the bear, deer, elks, buffaloes, and other 
animals which had been created for the use of the 
Indians : that the Great Man above, looking 
down and seeing this, was so enraged that he 
seized his lightning, descended on the earth, seated 
himself on a neighboring mountain, on a rock of 
which his seat and the print of his feet are still 
to be seen, and hurled his bolts among them till 
the whole were slaughtered, except the big bull, 
who, presenting his forehead to the shafts, shook 
them off as they fell ; but missing one at length, 
it wounded him in the side; whereon, springing 
round, he bounded over the Ohio, over the 
Wabash, the Illinois, and finally over the great 
lakes, where he is living at this dav.' " — Jeffer- 
son's Notes on Virginia, Query VI. 

Page 73. Walter von der Vogelweid. 

Walter von der Voprelweid, or Bird-Meadow, was 
one of the principal Minnesingers of the thirteenth 
century. He triumphed over Heinrich von Ofter- 
dingen in that poetic contest at Wartburg Castle, 
known in literary history as the War of Wart- 
burg. 



Page 74. Like imperial Charlemagne. 

Charlemagne may be called by pre-eminene the 
monarch of farmers. According to the German 
tradition, in seasons of great abundance, his 
spirit crosses the Rhine on a golden bridge at 
Bingen, and blesses the cornfields and the vine- 
yards. During his lifetime, he did not disdain, 
says Montesquieu, ' ' to sell the eggs from the farm- 
yards of his domains, and the superfluous vege- 
tables of his gardens ; while he distributed among 
his people the wealth of the Lombards and the 
immense treasures of the Huns." 

Page 103. 

Behold, at last, 

Each tall ai\d tapering mast 

Is swung into its place. 

I wish to anticipate a criticism on this pas- 
sage, by stating, that sometimes, though not 
usually, vessels are launched fully sparred and 
rigged. I have availed myself of the exception 
as better suited to my purposes than the general 
rule ; but the reader will see that it is neither a 
blunder nor a poetic license. On this subject a 
friend in Portland, Maine, writes me thus : 

4 ' In this State, and also, I am told, in New 
York, ships are sometimes rigged upon the stocks 
in order to save time, or to make a show. There 
was a fine, large ship launched last summer at 
Ellsworth, fully sparred and rigged. Some years 
ago a ship was launched here, with her rigging, 
spars, sails, and cargo aboard. She sailed the next 
day, and — was never heard of again ! I hope this 
will not be the fate of your poem ! " 

Page 105. Sir Humphrey Gilbert. 

" When the wind abated and the vessels were 
near enough, the Admiral was seen constantly sit- 
ting in the stern, with a book in his hand. On the 
9th of September he was seen for the last time, 
and was heard by the people of the Hind to say, 
1 We are as near heaven by sea as by land ' In 
the following night, the lights of the ship sud- 
denly disappeared. The people in the other ves- 
sel kept a good lookout for him during the re- 
mainder of the voyage. On the 22d of Septem- 
ber they arrived, through much tempest and 
peril, at Falmouth. But nothing more was seen 
or heard of the Admiral." — Belknap's American 
Biography, I. 203. 

Page 111. The Blind Girl of Castel-Cuille. 

Jasmin, the author of this beautiful poem, is to 
the South of Prance what Burns is to the South 
of Scotland, — the representative of the heart of 
the people, — one of those happy bards who are 
born with their mouths full of birds (la boueo 
plenoWaouzelous). He has written his own bi- 
ography in a poetic form, and the simple narra- 
tive of his poverty, his struggles, and his triumphs 
is very touching. He still lives at Agen, on the 
Garonne ; and long may he live there to delight 
his native land with native songs !* 

The following description of his person and 
way of life is taken from the graphic pages of 
"Beam and the Pyrenees," by Louisa Stuart 
Costello, whose charming pen has done so much 
to illustrate the French provinces and their liter- 
ature. 

"At the entrance of the promenade, Du Gra- 
vier, is a row of small houses,— some cafes, other 
shops, the indication of which is a painted cloth 
placed across the way, with the owner's name in 
bright gold letters, in the manner of the arcades 
in the streets, and their announcements. One oj. 
the most glaring of these was, we observed, a 
bright blue flag, bordered with gold ; on which, in 
large gold letters, appeared the name of ' Jasmin, 
Coiffeur.' We entered, and .vere welcomed by, a 



NOTES. 



27' 
i < 



smiling, dark-eyed woman, who informed us that 
her husband was busy at that moment dressing a 
customer's hair, but 'he was desirous to receive 
us, and begged we would walk into his parlor at 
the back or! the shop. 

" She exhibited to us a laurel crown of gold of 
delicate workmanship, sent from the city of 
Clemence Isaure, Toulouse, to the poet ; who will 
probably one day take his place in the capitoul. 
Next came a golden cup, with an inscription in 
his honor, given by the citizens of Auch ; a gold 
watch, chain, and seals, sent by the King, Louis 
Philippe; an emerald ring, worn and presented 
by the lamented Duke of Orleans ; a pearl pin by 
the graceful Duchess, who, on the poet's visit to 
Paris accompanied by his son, received him in the 
words he puts into the mouth of Henri Quatre : 

' Brabes Gaseous ! 
A movm anion per bous ami dibes creyre ; 
Benes ! bene-; ! ey plaze de bous beyre : 
Aproucha bous ! ' 

A fine service of linen, the offering of the town 
of Pau, after its citizens bad given fetes in his 
honor, and loaded him with caresses and praises ; 
and knickknacks and jewels of all descriptions 
offered to him by lady-ambassadresses, and great 
lords; English' 'misses 1 and 'miladis,' and 
French, and foreigners of all nations, who did or 
did not under .-.tan d Gascon. 

"All this, though startling, was not convinc- 
ing; Jasmin, the barber, might only be a fashion, 
a furore* a caprice, after all ; and it was evident 
that he knew how to get up a scene well. Wh n 
we had become nearly tired of looking over these ; 
tributes to his genius, the door opened, and the 
poet himself appeared. His manner was free and 
unembarrassed, well-bred, and lively ; he received 
our compliments naturally, and like one accus- 
tomed to homage ; said he was ill, and unfortu- 
nately too hoarse to read anything to us, or should ' 
have ' been delighted to do so. He spoke with a 
broad Gascon accent, and very rapidly and elo- 
quently ; ran over the story of his successes ; told 
us that his grandfather had been a beggar, and 
all his family very poor ; that he was now as rich 
as he wished to be ; his son placed in agood posi- | 
tion at Nantes ; then showed us his son's picture, 
and spoke of his disposition ; t) which his brisk 
little wife added, that, though no fool, he had not 
his father's genius, to which truth Jasmin as- 
sented as a matter of course. I told him of having 
Been mention made of him in an English review ; 
which he said had been sent him by Lord Dur- | 
ham, who had paid him a visit ; and I then 
spoke of ' Mecal mouri' as known to me. This 
was enough to make him forget his hoarseness and 
every other evil : it would never do for me to 
imagine that that little song was his best com- 
position ; it was merely his first ; he must 
try to read to me a little of 'L'Abuglo,' — a few 
\v ses of 'Francouneto.' k You will be charmed,' 
Baid he ; ' but if I were well, and you would give 
me the pleasure of your company for some time, 
if you were not merely running through Agen, I 
would kill you with w r eeping, — I would make you 
die with distress for my poor Margarido, — my 
pretty Francouneto ! ' 

" He caught up two copies of his book from a 
pile lying on the table, and making us sit close to 
him, he pointed out the French translation on 
one side, which he told us to follow while he read 
in Gascon. He began in a rich soft voice, and as 
he advanced, the surprise of Hamlet on hearing 
the player-king recite the disasters of Hecuba, 
was but a type of ours, to find ourselves carried 
away by the spell of his enthusiasm. His eyes 
swam in tears ; he became pale and red ; he trem- 
bled ; he recovered himself ; his face was now 
iovous, now exulting, gay, jocose ; in fact he was 
18 



twenty actors in one ; he rang the changes from 
Rachel to Bouffc ; and he finished by delighting 
us, besides beguiling us of our tears, and oxer- 
whelming us with astonishment. 

" He would have been a treasure on the stage ; 
for he is still, though his first youth is past, re- 
markably good-looking and striking ; with black, 
sparkling eyes, of intense expression; a fine 
ruddy complexion ; a countenance of wondrous 
mobility; a good figure; and action full of 
fire and grace ; he has handsome hands, which 
he uses with infinite effect : and on the whole, he 
is the best actor of the kind I ever saw. I could 
now quite understand what a troubadour or jon- 
gleur might be, and I look upon Jasmin as a re- 
vived specimen of that extinct race. Such as he 
is might have been Gaucelm Faidit, of Avignon, 
the friend of Ceeur de Lion, who lamented the 
death of the hero in such moving strains; such 
might have been Bernard de Ventadour, who 
sang the praises of Queen Elinore's beauty ; such 
Geoffrey Rudel. of Blaye, on his own Garonne ; 
such the wild Vidal : certain it is that none of 
these troubadours of old could more move, by 
their singing or reciting, than Jasmin, in whom 
all their long-smothered fire and traditional magic 
seems re-illumined. 

"We found we had stayed hours instead of 
minutes with the poet ; but he would not hear of 
any apology, — only regretted that his voice was so 
out of tune, in consequence of a violent cold, under 
which he was really laboring, and hoped to see us 
again. He told us our countrywomen of Pau, 
had laden him with kindness and attention, and 
spoke with such enthusiasm of the beauty of cer- 
tain k misses,' that I feared his little wife would 
feel somewhat piqued ; but, on the contrary, she 
stood by. smiling and happy, and enjoying the 
stories of his triumphs. I remarked that he had 
restored the poetry of the troubadours ; asked him 
if he knew their songs; and said he was worthy 
to stand at their head. 'I am indeed, a tiouba- 
dour,' said he with energy ; * but I am far beyond 
them all : they were but beginners ; they never 
composed a poem like my Francouneto ! there are 
no poets in France now, — there cannot be ; the 
language does not admit of it ; where is the f re, 
the spirit, the expression, the tenderness, the 
force of the Gascon? French is but the ladder 
to reach to the first floor of Gascon, — how can 
you get up to a height except by a ladder ! ' 



"I returned by Agen, after an absence in the 
Pyrenees of some months, and renewed my ac- 
quaintance with Jasmin and his dark-eyed wife. 
I did not expect that I should be recognized ; but 
the moment I entered the little shop 1 was hailed 
as an old friend. ' Ah ! ' cried Jasmin, ' enfin la 
voila encore ! ' I could not but be flattered by this 
recollection, but scon found it was less on 'my own 
account that I was thus welcomed, than because 
a circumstance had occurred to the poet which he 
thought I could perhaps explain. He produced 
several French newspapers, in which he pointed 

i out to me an article headed ' Jasmin a Londres ; ' 
being a translation of certain notices of himself, 

; which had appeared in a leading English literary 

| journal. He had, he said, been informed of the 
honor done him by numerous friends, and assured 
me his fame had been much spread by this 
means ; and he was so delighted on the occasion, 
that he had resolved to learn English, in order that 
he might judge of the translations from his works, 
which, he had been told, were well done. I en- 

• joyed his surprise, while I informed him that I 
knew who was the reviewer and translator ; and 
explained the reason for the verses giving pleas- 
ure in an English dress to be the superior simplici- 

i ty of the English language over modern French, 
for which he has a great contempt, as unfitted for 



274 



NOTES. 



lyrical composition. He inquired of me respect- 
ing Burns, to whom he had been likened ; and 
begged me to tell him something of Moore. The 
delight of himself and his wife was amusing, at 
having discovered a secret which had puzzled 
them so long. 

" He had a thousand things to tell me ; in par- 
ticular, that he had only the day before received 
a letter from the Duchess of Orleans, informing 
him that she had ordered a medal of her late hus- 
band to be struck, the first of which would be 
sent to him : she also announced to him the 
agreeable news of the king having granted him a 
pension of a thousand francs.. He smiled and 
wept by turns, as he told us all this ; and declared, 
much as he was elated at the possession of a sum 
which made him a rich man for life, the kindness 
of the Duchess gratified him even more. 

1,1 He then made us sit down while he read us 
two new poems ; both charming, and full of grace 
and naivete ; and one very affecting, being an ad- 
dress to the king, alluding to the death of his son. 
As he read, his wife stood by, and fearing we did 
not quite comprehend his language, she made a 
remark to that effect : to which he answered im- 
patiently, 'Nonsense, — don't you see they are in 
tears ? ' This was unanswerable ; and we were 
allowed to hear the poem to the end ; and I cer- 
tainly never listened to anything more feelingly 
and energetically delivered. 

"We had much conversation, for he was 
anxious to detain us, and, in the course of it, he 
told me he had been by some accused of vanity. 
' O,' he rejoined, ' what would j'ou have. I am a 
child of nature, and cannot conceal my feelings ; 
the only difference between me and a man of re- 
finement is, that he knows how to conceal his vani- 
ty and exultation at success, which I let everybody 
see.'" — Beam and the Pyrenees, I. 3(59, et seq. 

Page 114. A CJiristmas Carol. 

The following description of Christmas in Bur- 
gundy is from M. Fertiault's (Jonp cV (Ell sur les 
Noels en Bourgogne, prefixed to the Paris edition 
of Les Noels Bonrguignons de Bernard de la 
Monnoye {Qui Barozai), 1842. 

"Every year at the approach of Advent, people 
refresh their memories, clear their throats, and 
begin preluding, in the long evenings by the fire- 
side, those carols whose invariable and eternal 
theme is the coming of the Messiah. They take 
from old closets pamphlets, little collections be- 
grimed with dust and smoke, to which the press, 
and sometimes the pen, has consigned these 
songs ; and as soon as the first Sunday of Advent 
sounds, they gossip, they gad about, they sit to- 
gether by the fireside, sometimes at one house, 
sometimes at another, taking turns in paying for 
the chestnuts and white wine, but singing with 
one common voice the grotesque praises of the 
Little Jcsns. There are very few villages even, 
which, during all the evenings of Advent, do not 
hear some of these curious canticles shouted in 
their streets, to the nasal drone of bagpipes. In 
this case the minstrel comes as a reinforcement 
to the singers at the fireside ; he brings and adds 
his dose of joy (spontaneous or mercenary, it 
matters little which) to the joy which breathes 
around the hearth-stone ; and when the voices 
vibrate and resound, one voice more is always 
welcome. There, it is not the purity of the notes 
which makes the concert, but the quantity, — non 
qualitas, sed qnantitas ; then (to finish at once 
with the minstrel), when the Saviour has at length 
been born in the manger, and the beautiful 
Christmas Eve is passed, the rustic piper makes 
his round among the houses, where every one 
compliments and thanks him, and, moreover, 
gives him in small coin the price of the shrill 
notes with which he has enlivened the evening 
entertainments. 



' ' More or less until Christmas Eve, all goes on 
in this way among our devout singers, with the 
difference of some gallons of wine or some hun- 
dreds of chestnuts. But this famous eve once 
come, the scale is pitched upon a higher key ; the 
closing evening must be a memorable one. The 
toilet is begun at nightfall ; then comes the hour 
of supper, admonishing divers appetites; and 
groups, as numerous as possible, are formed to 
take together this comfortable evening repast. 
The supper finished, a circle gathers around the 
hearth, which is arranged and set in order this 
evening after a particular fashion, and which at 
a later hour of the night is to become the object 
of special interest to the children. On the burn- 
ing brands an enormous log has been placed. 
This log assuredly does not change its nature, but 
it changes its name during this evening ; it is 
called the Suehe (the Yule-log). ' Look you,' say 
they to the children, 'if you are good this even- 
ing, Noel' (for with children one must always 
personify) ' will rain down sugar-plums in the 
night.' And the children sit demurely, keeping 
as quiet as their turbulent little natures will 
permit. The groups of older persons, not always 
as orderly as the children, seize this good oppor- 
tunity to surrender themselves with merry hearts 
and boisterous voices to the chanted worship of 
the miraculous Noel. For this final solemnity, 
they have kept the most powerful, the most en- 
thusiastic, the most electrifying carols. Noel! 
Noel ! Noel ! This magic word resounds on all 
sides ; it seasons every sauce, it is served up with 
every course. Of the thousands of canticles 
which are heard on this famous eve, ninety-nine 
in a hundred begin and end with this word ; which 
is, one may say, their Alpha and Omega, their 
crown and footstool. This last evening, the 
merry-making is prolonged. Instead of retiring 
at ten or eleven o'clock, as is generally done on 
all the preceding evenings, they wait for the 
stroke of midnight : this word sufficiently pro- 
claims to what ceremony they are going to repair. 
For ten minutes or a quarter of an hour, the bells 
have been calling the faithful with a triple-bob- 
major ; and each one, furnished with a little taper 
streaked with various colors (the Christmas Can- 
dle), goes through the crowded streets, where the 
lanterns are dancing like Will-o'-the- Wisps, at 
the impatient summons of the multitudinous 
chimes. It is the Midnight Mass. Once inside 
the church, they hear with more or less piety the 
Mass, emblematic of the coming of the Messiah. 
Then in tumult and great haste they return home- 
ward, always in numerous groups ; they salute 
the Yule-log ; they pay homage to the hearth ; 
they sit down at table ; and, amid songs which 
reverberate louder than ever, make this meal of 
after-Christmas, so long looked for, so cherished, 
so joyous, so noisy, and which it has been thought 
fit to call, we hardly know why, Rossignon. The 
supper eaten at nightfall is no impediment, as 
you may imagine, to the appetite's returning ; 
above all, if the going to and from church has 
made the devout eaters feel some little shafts of 
the sharp and biting north-wind. Itossignvn then 
goes on merrily, — sometimes far into the morning 
hours ; but, nevertheless, gradually throats grow 
hoarse, stomachs are filled, the Yule-log burns 
out. and at last the hour arrives when each one, 
as best he may, regains his domicile and his bed, 
and puts with himself between the sheets the 
material for a good sore-throat, or a good indiges- 
tion, for the morrow. Previous to this, care has 
bren taken to place in the slippers, or wooden 
shoes of the children, the sugar-plums, which 
shall be for them, on their waking, the welcome 
fruits of the Christmas log." 

In the Glossary, the Suche, or Yule-log, is thus 
defined : — 

" This is a huge log, which is placed on the fire 



NOTES. 



on Christmas Eve, and which in Burgundy is 
called, on this account, lal Suche de Noci. Then 
the father of the family, particularly among the 
middle classes, sings solemnly Christmas carols 
with his wife and children, the smallest of whom 
he sends into the corner to pray that the Yule- 
log may bear him some sugar-plums. Meanwhile, 
little parcel of thc-m are placed under each end of 
the log, and the children come and pick them up, 
believing, in good faith, that the great log has 
borne them." 

Page 115. The Song of Hiawatha. This 
Indian Edda — if I may so call it — is founded on 
a tradition prevalent among the North American 
Indians, of a personage of miraculous birth, who 
was sent among them to clear their rivers, forests, 
and fishing-grounds, and to teach them the arts 
of peace. Me was known among different tribes 
by the several names of Michabou, Chiabo, Mana- 
bozo, Tarenyawagon, and Hiawatha. Mr. School- 
craft gives an account of 1dm in his Algic Re- 
searches Vol. I. p. 134; and in his History, Con- 
dition., caul Prospects of the Indian Tribes of the 
United Slates, Part III. p. 314, may be found the 
Iroquois form of the tradition, derived from the 
verbal narrations of an Onondaga chief. 

Into this old tradition I have woven other 
curious Indian legends, drawn chiefly from the 
various and valuable writings of Mr. Schoolcraft, 
to whom the literary world is greatly indebted 
for his indefatigable zeal in rescuing from obliv- 
ion so much of the legendary lore of the Indians. 

The scene of the poem is among the Ojibways 
on the southern shore of Lake Superior, in the 
region between the Pictured Rocks and the Grand 
Sable. 

VOCABULARY. 

Adjidau'mo, the red squirrel. 

Abdeek', the reindeer. 

Ahkose'win, fever. 

Ahnuvk', the beaver. 

Algon'qui'n, Ojibway. 

Annemee'kee, the tieunder. 

Apuk'wa, a bulrush. 

Baim-wa'wa, the sound of the thunder . 

Bemah'uut, the grapevine. 

Be'na, the pheasant. 

Big-S fa-Water, Lake Superior. 

Bukada'win, famine. 

Cheernaun', a bitch canoe. 

Chetowaik', the plover. 

Chibia'bos, a musician ; friend of LTiaioalha ; ruler in 

the Laud of Spirits. 
Dahin'da, the bullfrog. 

Dush- kwo-ne'she, or Kwo-ne'she, the dragon-fly. 
Esa, shame upon you. 
Ewa-yea', lullaby. 
Ghee'zis, the sun. 

Gritchfi G-u'mee, the Big Sea-Water. Lake Superior. 
Gitche Man'ito, the Great Spirit, the Master of Life. 
G-ushkewau', the darkness. 
Hiawa'tha, the Wise Man, the Teacher; son of Mud/e- 

keeivis. the West-Wind, and Menonah, daughter of 

Nokomis, 
la'goo, a great boaster and story-teller. 
Inin'ewug, men, or pawns in the Game of the Bowl. 
Isbkoolah', fire; a comet. 
Jee'bi. a ghost, a spirit 
Joss'akeed, a prophet. 
Kabibonok'ka, the North-Wind. 
Kagh. the hedge- hog. 
Ka'go. do not. 
Kahgahgee', the raven, 
Kaw. no. 

Kawcen', no indeed. 
Kayoshk', the sea-gull, 
Keu'go. a fish.. 

Keeway'din. the Northwest- Wind, the Rome Wind. 
Kena'beek, a serpent. 
Keneu', the great war-eagle. 
Keno'zha, the pickerel. 
Ko'ko-ko'ho. the awl. 
Kuntasoo', the Game of Plum-stones. 
Kwii/sind. the Strong Man. 
Kwo-ne'she, or Dush-kwo-ne'she, the dragon-fly. 



Mahnahbe'zee, the swan. 
-Mnlmg, the loon. 

Mahn-go-tay'see, loon-hearted, brave. 
Mahnomo'nee, ivild rice. 
Ma'ma, the woodpecker. 
Maskeno'zha, the pike 
Me'da, a medicine man. 
Meenah'ga, the blueberry. 

vo:i. the great Pearl-Feather, a magician, and 

the Manito of Wealth. 
Meshinau'wa, a pipe-bearer. 
Minjekah'wun, Hiawatha's mittens. 
Minneha'ha, Laughwig Water ; a water-fall on a stream 

running into the Mississippi, between Fort Snelling 

and the Falls of St. Anthony. 
Minneha'ha. Laughing Water; wife of Hiawatha. 
Minne-wa'wa, a pleasant sound, as of the wind in the 

trees. 
Mishe-Mo'kwa, the Great Bear. 
Mishe-Nah'ma, tl>e G; eat Sturgeon. 
Miskodeed', the Spring- Beauty, the Claylonia Virginica. 
Monda'min. Indian corn. 
Moon of Bright Nights, April. 
Moon of Leaves, May. 
Moon of Strawberries, June. 
Moon of the Falling Leaves, September. 
Moon of Snow-Shoes, November. 
Mndjekee'wis, t.'.e West-Wind ; father of ITiaicatJia. 
Mudwav-aush'kn, sound of waves on a shore. 
Muehkoda'sa, the grouse. 
Nah'ma, the sturgeon. 
Nah'ma wusk, spearmint. 
Na'gow Wudj'oo, the Sand Dunes of Lake Superior. 

uaw'baigs, water spirits. 
Nenemo >'sha, sweetheart. 
Ne] ah'win, sleep. 

Noko'mip, a grandmother ; mother of Wenonah. 
No'sa, my father. 
Nush'ka, look! look ! 
Odah'min, the strawberry. 
Ok: i hah 'wis, the fresh-water herring. 
Ome'me, the pigeon. 
Ona'gon, a bowl. 
Onaway', awake. 
Ope'cbee, the robin. 
Osse'o, Son of the Evening Star. 
Owais'sa, the bluebird. 
Oweenee', wife of Osseo. 
Ozawa'beek, a round piece of brass or copper in the 

Game of the Bowl. 
Pah-puk-kee'na, the grasshopper. 
Pau'guk. death. 
Pau-puk-kee'wis, the handsome Yenadizze, the Storm 

Fool. 
Pauwa'ting, Saut Sainte Marie. 
Pe'boan, Winter. 

Pem'ican, meat, of the deer or buffalo dried and pouvded. 
Pezbekee', the bison. 
Pishnekuh', the brant. 
Pone'mab, hereafter. 
Pugasaing', Game of the Boicl. 
Puggawau'gun. a war-club. 

Puk-Wndj'ies, little wild men of the woods ; pygmies. 
Sah-sah-je'wun, rapids. 
Sah'wa, the perch. 
Segwun', Spring. 
Sha'da, the pelican 
Shahbo'min. the gooseberry. 
Shah— hah, long ago. 
Shaugoda'ya, a coicard. 
Shawgashet', the crato-fish. 
Shawonda'seo, the South-Wind. 
Shaw-shaw. the sioalloio. 

Shesh'ebwug, ducks; pieces in the Game of the Bowl. 
Sbin'gebis, the diver or grebe. 
Showa n' neme'shin, pity me. 
Shuh-shuh'gah. the. blue heron. 
Soan-ge-ta'ha, strong-hearted. 
Subbeka'she, the spider. 
Sngge'ma, the mosquito. 
To'tem. family coat-of-arms. 
Ugh, yes. 

U'-judwashV/x? sun- fish. 
Unktahee', the God of Water. 
Wabas'so. the rabbit ; the Forth. 
Wabe'no, a magician, a juggler. 
Wahe'no-wusk, yarrow. 
Wa'bim. the East-Wind. 
Wa'bun An'nung, the Star of the East, tJie Morning 

Star. 
Wiihono'win. a cry of lamentation. 
Wah-wah-tay'see, the fire-jiy. 
Wam'pura, beads of shell. 



270 



NOTES. 



Wuubcwy'on. a white skin wrapper. 

Wa'wa, the wild-goose, 

Waw'beek, a rock-. 

Waw-be-wa'wa, the white goose. 

Wawonais'sa, the whippoorwill. 

Way-muk-kwa'na, the caterpillar. 

Wen'digoes, giants. 

Weno'nah, HiatoathvPs mother, daughter of Nol-omis. 

Yenadiz'ze, an Idler and gambler ; an Indian dandy. 

Page 115. In the Vale of Tawasentha. 
This valley, now called No-man's Kill, is in 
Albany County, New York. 

Page 116. On the Mountains of the Prairie. 

Mr. Catlin, in his Letters and Notes on the Man- 
ners, Customs, and Condition of the North Amer- 
ican Indians, Vol. II. p. 160, gives an interesting 
account of the C6te.au des Prairies, and the Red 
Pipestone Quarry. He says : — 

"Here (according to their traditions) happened 
the mysterious birth of the red pipe, which has 
blown its fumes of peace and war to the remotest 
corners of the continent ; which has visited every 
warrior, and passed through its reddened stem 
the irrevocable oath of war and desolation. And 
here, also, the peace-breathing calumet was born, 
and fringed with the eagle's quills, which has 
shed its thrilling fumes over the land, and soothed 
the fury of the relentless savage. 

".The Great Spirit at an ancient period here 
called the Indian nations together, and, standing 
on the precipice of the red pipe-stone rock, broke 
from its wall a piece, and made a huge pipe by 
turning it in his hand, which he smoked over 
them, and to the North, the South, the East, and 
the West, and told them that this stone was red, 
— that it was their flesh, —that they must use it 
for their pipes of peace, — that it belonged to them 
all, and that the war-club and scalping-knife must 
not be raised on its ground. At the last whiff of 
his pipe his head went into a great cloud, and the 
whole surface of the rock for several miles was 
melted and glazed ; two grea,t ovens were opened 
beneath, and two women (guardian spirits of the 
place) entered them in a Blaze of fire ; and they 
are heard there yet (Tso-mec-cos-tee and Tso-me- 
cos-te-won-dee), answering to the invocations of 
the high-priests or medicine-men, who consult 
them when they are visitors to this sacred place." 

Page 117. Hark you, Bear ! you are a cow- 
ard. 

This anecdote is from Heckewelder. In his ac- 
count of the Indian Nations, he describes an In- 
dian hunter as addressing a bear in nearly these 
words. " I was present," he says, "at the deliv- 
ery of this curious invective ; when the hunter 
had despatched the bear, I asked him how he 
thought that poor animal could understand what 
he said to it. ' O,' said he, in answer, ' the bear 
understood me very well ; did you not observe 
how ashamed he looked while I was upbraiding 
him?'" — Transactions of the American Philo- 
sophical Society, Vol. I. p. 240. 

Page 119. Hush! the Naked Bear will hear 
thee ! 

Heckewelder, in a letter published in the 
Transactions of the American Philosophical So- 
ciety, Vol. IV. p. 260, speaks of this tradition as 
prevalent among the Mohicans and Delawares. 

"Their reports," he says, " rnn thus: that 
among all animals that had been formerly in this 
country, this was the most ferocious ; that it was 
much larger than the largest of the common 
bears, and remarkably long-bodied ; all over (ex- 
cept a spot of hair on its back of a white color) 
naked 

"The history of this animal used to be a sub- 
ject of conversation among the Indians, especially 



when in the woods a-hunting. I have also heard 
them say to their children when crying : l Hush ! 
the naked bear will hear you, be upon you, and 
devour you.'" 

Page 122. Where the Falls of Minnehaha, etc. 

"The scenery about Fort Snelling is rich in 
beauty. The Falls of St. Anthony are familiar 
to travellers, and to readers of Indian sketches. 
Between the fort and these falls are the l Little 
Falls,' forty feet in height, on a stream that emp- 
ties into the Mississippi. The Indians called them 
Mme-hah-hah, or 'laughing waters.'" — Mks. 
Eastman's Dacotah, or Legends of the Sioux, 
In trod., p. ii. 

Page 133. Sand Hills of the Nagoio Witdjoo. 

A description of the Grand, Sable, or great 
sand-dunes of Lake Superior, is given in Foster 
and Whitney's Report on the Geology of the Lake 
Sitperior Land District, Part II. p. 131. 

"The Grand Sable possesses a scenic interest 
little inferior to that of the Pictured Kocks. The 
explorer passes abruptly from a coast of consoli- 
dated sand to one of loose materials ; and although 
in the one case the cliffs are less precipitous, yet 
in the other they attain a higher altitude. He 
sees before him a long reach of coast, resembling 
a vast sand-bank, more than three hundred and 
fifty feet in height, without a trace of vegetation. 
Ascending to the top, rounded hillocks of blown 
sand are observed, with occasional clumps of trees, 
standing out like oases in the desert." 

Page 133. Onaway ! Awake, beloved ! 
The original of this song may be found in Lit- 
tell's Living Age, Vol. XXV. -p. 45. 

Page 134. Or the Red Sio an floating, flying . 

The fanciful tradition of the Red Swan may be 
found in Schoolcraft's Algic Researches, Vol. II. 
p. 9. Three brothers were Imnting on a wager to 
see who would bring home the first game. 

" They were to shoot no other animal," to the 
legend says, " but such as each was in the habit 
of killing. They set out different ways : 
Odjibwa, the youngest, had not gone far before 
he saw a bear, an animal he was not to kill, by 
the agreement. He followed him close, and drove 
an arrow through him, which brought him to the 
ground. Although contrary to the bet, he imme- 
diately commenced skinning him, when suddenly 
something red tinged all the air around him. He 
rubbed his eyes, thinking he was perhaps de- 
ceived ; but without effect, for the red hue con- 
tinued. At length he heard a strange noise at a 
distance. It first appeared like a human voice, 
but after following the sound for some distance, 
he reached the shores of a lake, and soon saw the 
object he was looking for. At a distance out in 
the lake sat a most beautiful Red Swan, whose 
plumage glittered in the sun, and who would now 
and then make the same noise he had heard. He was 
within long bow-shot, and, pulling the arrow from 
the bowstring up to his ear, took deliberate aim 
and shot. The arrow took no effect ; and he shot 
and shot again till his quiver was empty. Stili the 
swan remained, moving round and round, stretch- 
ing its long neck and dipping its bill into the water, 
as if heedless of the arrows shot at it. Odjibwa 
ran home, and got all his own and his brothers' 
arrows, and shot them all away. He then stood 
and gazed at the beautiful bird. While standing, 
he remembered his brothers' saying that in their 
deceased father's medicine-sack were three magic 
arrows. Off he started, his anxiety to kill the 
swan overcoming all scruples. At any other 
time, he would have deemed it sacrilege to open 
his father's medicine-sack; but now he hastily 
seized the three arrows and ran back, leaving the 



NOTES. 



277 



other contents of the sack scattered over the 
lodge. Tne swan was still there. He shot the 
first arrow with great precision, and came very, 
near to it. The second came still closer ; as he 
took the last arrow, he felt his arm firmer, and 
drawing it up with vigor, saw it pass through the 
neck of the swan a little above the breast. Still 
it did not prevent the bird from flying off, which 
it did, however, at first slowly, flapping its wings 
and rising gradually into the air, and then flying 
off towards the sinking of the sun." — pp. 10-12. 

Page 136. When I Hunk of my beloved. 
The original of this song may be found in 
Oneota, p. 15. 

Page 136. Sing the mysteries of Mondamin. 

The Indians hold th3 maize, or Indian corn, in 
great veneration. "They esteem it so important 
and divine a grain," says Schoolcraft, "that the'.r 
story-tellers invented various tales, in which this 
idea is symbolize 1 under the form of a special 
gift from the Great Spirit. The Odjibwa-Al- 
gonquins,, who call it Mon-da-min, that is, the 
Spirit's grain or berry, hive a pretty story of this 
kind, in which the stalk in full tassel is repre- 
sent 3d as descending from the sky, under the 
guise of a handsome youth, in answer to the 
prayers of a young man at his fast virility, or 
coming to manhood. 

" It is well known that corn-planting and corn- 
gathering, at least among all the still uncolonized 
tribes, are left entirely to the females and chil- 
dren, and a few superannuated old men. It is not 
generally known, perhaps, that this labor is not 
compulsory, and that it is assumed by the females 
as a just equivalent, in their view, for the onerous 
and continuous labor of the other sex, in provid- 
ing meats, and skins for clothing, by the chase, 
and in defending their villages against their ene- 
mies, and keeping intruders off their territories. 
A good Indian housewife deems this a part of her 
prerogative, and prides herself to have a store 
of corn to exercise her hospitality, or duly honor 
her husband's hospitality, in the entertainment 
of the lodge guests." — Oucoto, p. 8:3 

Page 137. Thus the fields shall be more fruit- 
ful. 

"A singular proof of this belief, in both sexes, 
of the mysterious influence of the steps of a woman, 
on the vegetable and insect creation, is found in 
an ancient custom, which was related to me, re- 
specting corn-planting. It was the practice of 
the hunter's wife, when the field of corn had 
been planted, to choose the first dark or over- 
clouded evening to perform a secret circuit, sans 
habillemenl, around the field. For this purpose 
she slipped out of the lodge in the evening, un- 
observed, to some obscure nook, where she com- 
pletely disrobed. Then, taking her matchecota, 
or principal garment, in one hand, she dragged it 
around the field. This was thought to insure a 
prolific crop, and to prevent the assaults of insects 
and worms upon the grain. It was supposed they 
could not creep over the charmed line. " — Oneota, 
p. 83. 

Page 137. With 7iis prisoner-string he bound 

him. 

"These cords," says Mr. Tanner, "are made 
of the bark of the elm-tree, by boiling and 

then immersing it in cold water The 

leader of a war party commonly carries several 
fastened about his waist, and if, in the course of 
the fight, any one of his young men takes a 
prisoner, it is his duty to bring him immediately 
to the chief, to be tied, and the latter is respon- 
sible for his safe keeping." — Narrative of Captiv- 
ity and Adventures, p. 412. 



Page 138. 

Wagemiu, the thief of cornfields, 
Paimosaid, who steals the maize-ear. 

"If one of the young female maskers finds a 
red ear of corn, it is typical of a brave admirer, 
and is regarded as a fitting present to some young 
warrior. But if the ear be crooked, and tapering 
to a point, no matter what color, the whole circle 
is set in a roar, and wa-ge-min is the word 
shouted aloud. It is the symbol of a thief in the 
cornfield. It is considered as the image of an old 
man stooping as he enters the lot. Had the chisel 
of Praxiteles been employed to produce this 
image, it could not more vividly bring to the 
minds of the merry group the idea of a pilferer of 
their favorite mondamin 

"The literal meaning of the term is. a mass, or 
crooked ear of grain ; but the ear of corn so called 
is a conventional type of a little old man pilfering 
ears of corn in a cornfield. It is in this manner that 
a single word or term, in these curious languages, 
becomes the fruitful parent of many ideas. And 
we can thus perceive why it is that the word voa- 
gemin is alone competent to excite merriment in 
the husking circle. 

" This term is taken as the basis of the cereal 
chorus, or corn song, as sung by the Northern 
Algonquin tribes. It is coupled with the phrase 
Paimosaid, — a permutative form of the Indian 
substantive made from the verb pim-osa, to 
walk. Its literal meaning is. he who walks, or the 
walker ; but the ideas conveyed by it are, he 
\ who walks by night to pilfer corn. It offers, 
therefore, a kind of parallelism in expression to 
the preceding term." — Oucota, p. 254. 

Page 141. Pugasaing, with thirteen pieces. 
This Game of the Bowl is the principal game of 
hazard among the Northern tribes of Indians. 
Mr. Schoolcraft gives a particular account of it 
in Oneota, p. 85. "This game," he says, "is 
very fascinating to some portions of the Indians. 
They stake at it their ornaments, weapons, 
clothing, canoes, horses, everything in fact they 
| possess ; and have been known, it is said, to set 
I up their wives and children, and even to forfeit 
| their own liberty. Of such desperate stakes I 
i have seen no examples, nor do I think the game 
] itself in common use. It is rather confined to 
' certain persons, who hold the relative rank of 
! gamblers in Indian society, — men who are not 
I noted as hunters or warriors, or steady providers 
I for their families. Among these are persons who 
; bear the term of lenadizze-wtig, that is, wan- 
I derers about the country, braggadocios, or fops. 
It can hardly be classed with the popular games 
of amusement, by which skill and dexterity are 
acquired. I have generally found the chiefs and 
J graver men of the tribes, who encourage the 
j young men to play ball, and are sure to be pres- 
ent at the customary sports, to witness, and 
I sanction, and applaud them, speak lightly and 
; disparagingly of this game of hazard. Yet it 
i cannot be denied that some of the chiefs, distin- 
! guished in war and the chase at the West, can 
I be referred to as lending their example to its 
| fascinating power." 

See also his History. Condition, and Prospects 
of the Indian Tribes, Part II. p. 72. 

Page 144. To the Pictured Rocks of sand- 
stone. 

The reader will find a long description of the 
\ Pictured Rocks in Foster and Whitney's Report 
1 on the Geology of the Lake Superior Laud Dis- 
trict, Part II. p. 124. From this I make the 
following extract : — 

" The Pictured Rocks may be described, in 

general terms, as a series of sandstone bluffs ex- 

I tending along the shore of Lake Superior for 



278 



NOTES. 



about five miles, and rising, in mest places, verti- 
cally from the water, without any beach at the 
base, to a height varying from fifty to nearly two 
hundred feet. Were they simply a line of cliffs, 
they might not, so far as relates to height or 
extent, be worthy of a rank among great natural 
curiosities, although such an assemblage of rocky 
strata, washed by the waves of the great lake, 
would not, under any circumstances, be destitute 
of grandeur. To the voyager, coasting along 
their base in his frail canoe, they would, at all 
times, be an object of dread ; the recoil of the 
surf, the rock-bound coast, affording, for miles, 
no place of refuge, — the lowering sky, tha rising 
wind, — all these would excite his apprehension, 
and induce him to ply a vigorous oar until the 
dreaded wall was passed. But in the Pictured 
Rocks there are two features which communicate 
to the scenery a wonderful and almost unique 
character. These are, first, the curious manner in 
which the cliffs have been excavated and worn 
away by the action of the lake, which, for cen- 
turies, has dashed an ocean-like surf against their 
base : and, second, the equally curious manner in 
which large portions of the surface have been 
colored by bauds of brilliant hues. 

" It is from the latter circumstance that the 
name, by which these cliffs are known to the 
American traveller, is derived ; while that ap- 
plied to them by the French voyageurs ( k Les 
Portails ') is derived from the former, and by 
far the most striking peculiarity. 

" The term Pictured Rocks has been in use for" 
a great length of time ; but when it was first ap- 
plied, Ave have been unable to discover. It would 
seem that the first travellers were more impressed 
with the novel and striking distribution of colors 
on the surface than with the astonishing variety 
of form into which the cliffs themselves have been 



" Our voyageurs had many legends to relate of 
the pranks of the Menni-bojou in these caverns, 
and, in answer to our inquiries, seemed disposed to 
fabricate stories, without end, of the achievements 
of this Indian deity." 

Page 150. Toward the sun his hands were 
lifted. 

In this manner, and with such salutations, was 
Father Marquette received by the Illinois. See 
his Voyages et Decouvertcs, Section V. 

Page 167. 

That of our vices we can frame 
A ladder. 



The words of St. Augustine are. 



De vitiis 



nostris scalam nobis facimus, si vitia ipsa calca- 
raus." 

Sermon III. De Ascensione. 

Page 167. The Tlxantom Ship . 

A detailed account of this "apparition of a 
Ship in the Air " is given by Cotton Mather in 
his Magnolia Christ i, Book I. Ch. VI. It is con- 
tained m a letter from the Rev. James Pierpont, 
Pastor of New Haven. To this account Mather 
adds these words : — 

"Reader, there being yet living so many credi- 
ble gentlemen that were eye-witnesses of this 
Avonderf ul thing, I venture to publish it for a 
thing as undoubted as 't is wonderful." 

Page 169. And the Emperor but a Macho. 
Macho, in Spanish, signifies a mule. Golon- 
| drina is the feminine form of Golondrino, a swal- 
low, and also a cant name for a deserter. 

Page 170. Oliver Basselin. 

Oliver Basselin, the " Pere joyeux du Vaude- 

J vi!ie, p flourished in the fifteenth century, and 

j gave to h : s convivial songs the name of his native 

valleys, in which he sang them, Vaux-de-Vire. 

This name was afterwards corrupted into the 

modern Vaudeville. 

Page 171. Victor Galbraith. 

This poem is founded on fact. Victor Gal- 
braith Avas a bugler in a company of volunteer 
cavalry, and Avas shot in Mexico for some breach 
of discipline. It is a common superstition among 
soldiers that no balls will kill them unless 
their names are written on them. The old 
proverb says, "Every bullet has its billet." 

Page 171. I remember the sea-fight far away. 

This was the engagement betAveen the Enter- 
prise and Boxer, off the harbor of Portland, in 
which both captains were slain. They were 
buried side by side, in the cemetery on Mountjoy. 

Page 173. Santa Filomena. 

" At Pisa the church of San Francisco contains 
a chapel dedicated lately to Santa Filomena ; 
over the altar is a picture, by Sabatelli, represent- 
ing the Saint as a beautiful, nymph-like figure, 
floating down from heaven, attended by two 
angels bearing the lily, palm, and javelin, and 
beneath, in the foreground, the sick and maimed 
who are healed by her intercession. " — Mrs. Jame- 
son, Sacred and Legendary Art, II. 298. 



INDEX. 



[The titles in small capital letters are those of the principal divisions of the work, those in lower- 
case are single poems, or the subdivisions of long poems.] 



Aftermath, 180. 

Afternoon in February, 72. 

Air, The, 252. 

Amalli, 362. 

Angel and the Child, The, 249. 

Annie of Tharaw, 70. 

April Day, An, 1(5. 

Arrow and the Song, The, 74. 

Arsenal at Springfield, The, 66. 

Autumn, 10, 74. 

Azrael, 220. 

Ballad of Carmilhan, The, 212. 
Ballads and other Poems, 29. 

Baron of St. Castine, The, 217. 

Beatrice, 24. 

Beleaguered City, The, 15. 

Belfry of Bruges and other Poems, The, G3. 

Belfry of Br ages, The, 04. 

Belisarius, 2e3. 

Bell of Atri, The, 208. 

Bells of Lynn, The, 238. 

Beware, 27. 

Bird and the Ship, The, 20. 

Birds of Killingworth, The, 205. 

Birds of Passage, 108. 

Birds of Passage. 

Flight the First, 100. 

Flight the Second, 176. 

Flight the Third, 178. 

Flight the Fourth, 201. 
Bishop Sigurd at Salten Fiord, 196. 
Black Knight, The, 28. 
Bles.-ing the Cornfields, 136. 
Blind Bartimeus, 40. 
Blin I Girl of Castel-Cuille, 111. 
Book of Sonnets, 204. 
Boy and the Brook, The, 24S. 
Bridge, Tne, 70. 
Bridge of Cloud, The, 5:36. 
Brook, The, 23. 
Brook and the Wave, The, 179. 
Builders, The, 107. 

Building of the Long Serpent, The, 197. 
Building of the Ship, The, 100. 
Burial of the Minnisink, 18. 
By the Fireside, 107. 
Br the Seaside, 100. 

Cadenabbia, 201. 

Carillon, (>:!. 

Castle by the Sea, The, 27. 

Castle-Bui lder, The, 179. 

Catawba Wine, 173. 

Celestial Pdot, The, 23. 

Cualleuge, The, 179. 

Challenge of Thor, The, 190. 

Changed, 179. 

Charlemagne, 221. 

Charles feumner, 201. 

Chaucer, 205. 

Child Asleep, The, 24. 

Children, 175. 

Children of the Lord's Supper, The, 33. 

Children's Hour, The, 176. 

Cnrlstmas Bells, 237. 

Christmas Carol, A, 114. 



Chrysaor, 104. 

Cobbler of Hagenau, The, 210. 

Consolation, 248. 

Coplas de Manrique, i9. 

Courtship of Miles Standish TnE, 112. 

Crew of the Long Serpent, The, 198. 

Cumberland, The, 176. 

Curfew, 77 

Dante, 74. 

Day of Sunshine, A, 177. 

Day is Done, The, 71. 

Davbreak, 175. 

Daylight and Moonlight, 169. 

Dead, The, -.0. 

Death of Kwasind, The. 145. 

Dedication to the Seaside and the Fireside, 99. 

Discoverer of the North Cape, The, 174. 

Divina Commedia, 338. 

Drinking Song, 73. 

Earlier Poems, 16. 

Einar Tamberskelver, 201. 

Elected Knight, Ti 

Elizabeth, -24. 

Emma and Eginhard, 222. 

Emperor's Bhd's-Nest, The, 169. 

Enceladus, 17(5. 

Endymion, 3s. 

Epimetheis, 180. 

Evangeline, 78. 

Evening Star, The, 74. 

Excelsior, 42. 

Falcon of Ser Federigo, 185. 

Famine, The, 147. 

Fata Morgana, 17S. 

Fiftieth Birthday of Agassiz, 175. 

Finales to Wayside Inn, :207, 219, 234. 

Fire of Drift- Wood, The, 106. 

Flower-de-Luce, 235. 

Flower-de-Luce, 235. 

Flowers, 14. 

Footsteps of Angels, 13. 

Four Winds, The, 117. 

From the Spanish Cancioneros, 179. 

Fugitive, The, 247. 

Galaxy, The, 205. 
Garden, In the, 253, 256. 
Caspar Becerra, 1C9. 
Ghosts, The, 140. 
Giotto's Tower, 238. 
Gleam of Sunshine, A, 65. 
Goblet of Life, The, 40. 
God's Acre, 39. 
Golden Milestone, The, 172. 
Good Part, The, 43. 
Good Shepherd, The, 22. 
Grave, The, 25. 
Gudrun, 195. 

Handful of Translations, A, 247. 
Hanging of the Crane, The, 257. 
Happiest Land, The, 26. 
Haunted Chamber, The, 17S. 
Haunted Houses, 168. 



290 INDEX. 


Hawthorne, 237. 


Occultation of Orion, The, 69. 


Hemlock Tree, The, 75. 


Old Bridge at Florence, The, 260. 


Hiawatha and Mudjckeewis, 131. 


Old Clock on the Stairs, The, 73. 


Hiawatha and the Pearl-Feather, 129. 


Oliver Basselin, 170. 


Hiawatha's Childhood, 119. 


Olvmpus, 250. 


Hiawatha's Departure, 150. 


Open Window, The, 109. 


Hiawatha's Fasting, 123. 




Hiawatha's Fishing, 127, 


Palingenesis, 236. 


Hiawatha's Friends, 125. 


Pau-Puk-Keewis, 141. 


Hiawatha's Lamentation, 139. 


Paul Revere 'sJEUde, 183. 


Hiawatha's Sailing, 1:26. 


Peace Pipe, The, 116. 


Hiawatha's Wedding- Feast, 132. 


Pegasus in Pound, 109. 


Hiawatha's Wooing, 131. 


Phantom Ship, The, 167. 


House of Epimetheus, 252, 255. 


Picture-Writing, 138. 


Hunting of Pau-Puk-Keewis, The, 142. 


Poems on Slavery, 42. 


Hymn, 111. 


Poetic Aphorisms, 77. 


Hymn of the Moravian Nuns, 17. 


Poet's Tales, The, 205, 215, 221. 


Hymn to the Night, 12. 


Prelude to Voices of the Night, 11. 




Preludes to Tales of Wayside Inn, 181, 207, 220. 


11 Ponte Vecchio di Firenze, 2GG. 


Priscilla, 160. 


Image of God, The, 23. 


Prometheus, 166. 


In the Churchyard at Cambridge, 16S. 


Psalm of Life, A, 12. 


Interludes to the Wayside Inn, 184, 187, 188, 190, 




203, 205, 209, 210, 212, 214, 210, 217, 221, 222, 


Quadroon Girl, The, 44. 


224, .'228, 230, 231, 233. 


Queen Sigrid the Haughty, 191. 


Introduction to the Song of Hiawatha, 115. 


Queen Thyri and the Angelica Stalks, 199. 


Iron Beard, 193. 




It is not always May, 39. 


Rain in Summer, 67. 




Rainy Day, The, 39. 


Jewish Cemetery at Newport, 170. 


Raucl the Strong, 196. 


John Alden, 157. 


Reaper and the Flowers, The 13. 


Judas Maccabeus, 240. 


Remorse, 249. 




Resignation, 107. 


Kambalu, 2C9. 


Rhyme of Sir Christopher, The, 233. 


Keats, 265. 


Ropewalk, The, 172. 


Killed at the Ford, 238. 




King Christian, 25. 


Saga of King Olaf, The, 190. 


Kin? Olaf and Earl Sigvald, 200. 


Sailing of the Mayflower, The, 158. 


King Olaf's Christmas, 197. 


Sand of the Desert in an Hour-Glass, 107. 


King Olaf s Death-Drink, 201/ 


Sandalphon, 175. 


King Olaf's Return, 190. 


Santa Filomena, 173. 


King Olaf's War-Horns, 200. 


Santa Teresa's Book-Mark, 249. 


King Robert of Sicily, 18S. 


Scanderbeg, 230. 


King Svend of the Forked Beard, 199. 


Sea hath its Pearls, The, 76. 


King Witlaf's Drinking-Horn, 109. 


Seaside and the Fireside, The, 99. 




Seaweed, 71. 


Ladder of St. Augustine, The, 167. 


Secret of the Sea, The, 105. 


Lady Wentworth, 215. 


Sermon of St. Francis, The, 263. 


Landlord's Tales, The, 183, 233. 


Shadow, A, 266. 


Legend Beautiful, The, 216. 


Shakespeare, 265. 


Legend of Rabbi Ben Levi, The, 188. 


Sicilian's Tales, The, 188, 208, 228. 


Legend of the Crossbill, The, 76. 


Siege of Kazan. The, 247. 


L'Envoi, 28. 


Singers, The, 110. 


Light of Stars, The, 13. 


Sir Humphrey Gilbert, 105. 


Lighthouse, The, 106. 


Skeleton in Armor, The, 29. 


Little Bird in the Air, A, 198. 


Skerry of Shrieks, The, 192. 


Love and Friendship, 153. 


Slave in the Dismal Swamp, The, 43. 


Lover's Errand, The, 155. 


Slave Singing at Midnight, The, 44. 


Luck of Edenhall, The, 32. 


Slave's Dream, The, 42. 




Sleep, 266. 


Maidenhood, 40. 


Snow-Flakes, 177. 


March of Miles Standish, The, 162. 


Something left Undone, 177. 


Masque of Pandora, The, 250. 


Son of the Evening Star, The, 134. 


Meeting, The, 178. 


Song of Hiawatha, The, 115. 


Midnight Mass for the Dying Year, 15. 


Song of the Bell, 27. 


Miles Standish, 152. 


Song of the Silent Land, 28. 


Milton, 265. 


Songo River, 264. 


Miscellaneous, 37, 65. 


Songs, 71. 


Monk of Casal-Maggiore, The, 228. 


Sonnet, 110. 


Monte Cassino, 262. 


Sonnets, 74. 


Morituri Salutamus, 259. 


Sound of the Sea, The, 266. 


Mother's Ghost, The, 232. 


Spanish Jew's Tales, The, 188, 209, 220, 230. 


Musician's Tales, The, 190, 212,232. 


Spanish Student, The, 45. 


My Lost Youth, 171. 


Spinning-wheel, The, 163. 




Spirit of Poetry, The, 18. 


Nameless Grave, A, 266. 


Spring, 24. 


Native Land, The, 23. 


Statue over the Cathedral Door, The, 76. 


Noel, 239. 


Student's Tales, The, 185, 210. 217, 222. 


Norman Baron, The, 67. 


Summer Day by the Sea, A, 266. 


Nun of Nidaros, The, 202. 


Sunrise on the Hills, 17. 


Nuremberg, 66. 


Suspiria, 111. 



INDEX. 



281 



Tales of a Wayside Inn. 

Part First, "181. 

Part Second, 207. 

Part Third, 220. 
Tegner's Drapa, 110. 
Terrestrial Paradise, The, 24. 
Thanghrand the Priest, 195. 
Theologian's Tales, The, 203, 21G, 224. 
Thora of Rimol, 191. 
Three Friends of Mine, 204. 
Tides, The, 260. 
To a Child, 68. 

To an old Danish Song-Book, 72. 
To Cardinal Richelieu; 248. 
To Italy, 240. 
To the Driving Cloud, 70. 
To the River Charles, 39. 
To the Stork, 248. 
To William E. Channing, 42. 
To-morrow, 23, 238. 
Torquemada, 203. 

Tower of Prometheus on Mount Caucasus, 250. 
Translations, 19, 75. 
Travels by the Fireside, 281. 
Twilight, 105. 



Two Angels, The, 109. 
Two Locks of Hair, The, 38. 

Victor Galbraith, 171. 
Village Blacksmith, The, 37. 
Voices of the Night, 11. 
Vox Populi, 178. 

Walter von der Vogeiweid, 73. 

Wanderer's Night Songs, 210. 

Warden of the Cinque Ports, The, 1C8. 

Warning, The, 45. 

Wave, The, 26. 

Wayside Inn, The, 1S1. 

Weariness, 177. 

Wedding-Day, The, 165. 

White Man's Foot, The, 149. 

Whither, 27. 

Wind over the Chimney, The, 237. 

Witnesses, The, 44. 

Woods i:i Winter, 16. 

Workshop of Hephaestus, 250. 

Wraith of Odin, The, 193. 

Wreck of the Hesperus, The, 31. 



THE END. 



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"To those who arc acquainted with Mrs. Whitney's prose writings, we need scarcely say that she is, in her poetry 
as well, thoroughly genuine, and true to Nature and herself. Her poems are, indeed, a sort of counterpart of her 
stories. They exhibit the reflective side of a mind whose keen powers of perception the stories make so amply man- 
ifest. A deep piety is also one of Mrs. Whitney's poetic characteristics ; and we should have to seek far, this side of 
U-eorge Herbert, for poems in which the Christian Muse finds loftier expression. The poet has well named her little 
book: for each of her gathered 'Pansies 1 is 'for a thought 1 that has blossomed sweetly into words. 1 '— Buffalo 
Courier. 

JAMES R. OSGOOD & Co., Boston. 



"LITTLE CLASSIC" HAWTHORNE. 



This edition of the Works of Nathaniel Hawthorne is uniform with the " Little 
Classics," which have gained universal popularity. It is printed from new electrotype 
plates, and each volume has an original vignette Illustration. The edition comprises Twenty- 
one Volumes, as follows : — 



1. The Scarlet Letter. 

2. The House of the Seven Gables. 
3, 4. The Marble Faun. 

5. The Blithedale Romance. 
6, 7. Twice-Told Tales. 

8. The Snow Image. 
9, 10. Mosses from an Old Manse. 
11. Our Old Home. 



12, 13. English Note-Books. 

14, 15. American Note-Books. 

10, 17. French and Italian Note-Books. 

18. Septimius Felton. 

19. True Stories from History aud 

Biography. 

20. The Wonder-Book. 

21. Tangle wood Tales. 



Neatly bound in Cloth. Price, $1.25 a volume. 



"Hawthorne's art was so perfect and his fancy so exuberant that the children of his brain are exempt from the 
brief duration of life which usually is the fate of tales of romance. His colors do not fade, because, like the Old 
Masters, he had conquered the art of making them of the most durable material, and of laying them on with rare 
skill. His English is as transparent, flowing, robust, graceful, and wondrously flexible as it seemed to a generation 
ago ; and for this reason the creations which he has embalmed in it will be as popular with the next generation as 
they were with the last, and his writings will rank as classics with after generations."— The Christian Intelligencer 
{New lurk). 

" These make a handsome display on the library shelf, and the whole cost so little that it cannot be dotibted that 
many new readers will hasten to embrace the opportunity thus offered of becoming acquainted with the great prose 
master-pieces of American literature. . . . Nothing could exceed its neatness, daintiness, and convenience." — 
Appletons 1 Journal. 



EMERSON'S WORKS. 

" LITTLE CLASSIC" EDITION. 
The popular favor shown to the "Little Classics" and to the "Little Classic" 
edition of Hawthorne's Works has suggested the propriety of issuing in the same tasteful and 
inexpensive style the works of Mr. Emerson. The rapid sale of his latest volume of Essays, 
"Letters and Social Aims," gives most ample and gratifying proof that his hold upon the 
esteem and admiring interest of the American public has never been stronger than to-day. 
This " Little Classic " Edition is printed from entirely new electrotype plates, and com 
prises the following volumes : — 



1. Essays : First Series. 

2. Essays : Second Series. 

3. Miscellanies. 

4. .Representative Men. 

Price, $1.50 per volume. 



5. English Traits. 

6. The Conduct of L.ife. 

7. Society and Solitude. 
S. Poems. 



" More generations than two or than three will owe him much for some of the most genuine poetry that our lan- 
euao-e has to show, and for a collection of prose-writing informed with poetry, the fearless and serene sincerity of 
which the wisdom, the sound sense, the humor, the wit, the marvelous insight of which, make it a literary treasure 
that may well move o^ir gratitude."— The Nation (New York). 



* 



For sale by Booksellers. Sent, post-paid, on receipt of price by the Publishers, 

JAMES R. OSGOOD & Co., Boston. 



LITTLE CLASSICS. 



A Series of handy volumes, containing many of the choicest SiTOKT Stories, Sketches, 
and Poems in English Literature. The following list gives a part of their contents : — 



I.— EXILE. 

Ethan Brand Hawthorne 

A N ight in a Workhouse Jas. Greenwood 

The ( lutcaatfi of Poker Flat Bret Harte 

The Man without a Country... Hale 

Flight of a Tartar Tribe De Quineey 

' II.— INTELLECT. 

The House and the Brain Bulwer 

The Fall of the House of Usher Poe 

Chops, the Dwarf Dickens 

Wakefield Hawthoine 

The Captain's Story Rebecca Harding Davis 

III.— TRAGEDY. 

The Murders in Rue Morgue Poe 

'J' he Lauson Tragedy De Forest 

The Bell Tower Herman Melville 

The Kuthayan Slave Mrs. Judson 

The Vision of Sudden Death De Quineey 

IV.— LIFE. 

Raband his Friends Dr. John Brown 

A Romance of Real Life W. D. Howell* 

The Luck of Roaring Camp Bret H arte 

Beauty and the Beast Willis 

Dreamthorp Alexander Smith 

A Bachelor's Reverie D. G. Mitchell 

My Chateaux G. W. Curlis 

Dream Children Charles Lamb 

Gettysburg Abraham Lincoln 

V.— LAUGHTER. 

A Christmas Carol Dickens 

A Dissertation upon Roast Pig Lamb 

The Skeleton in the Closet Hale 

Sandy Wood's Sepulchre Hugh Miller 

A Visit to the Asylum for Decayed Punsters Holmes 

Neal Malone William Carlcton 

VI.— LOVE. 

Love and Skates Theodore Winthrop 

The Maid of Marines Bulwer 

The Story of Ruth From the Bible 

The Rise of Iskander Disraeli 

VII.— ROMANCE. 

Iris Holmes 

The Rosicrucian Miss Mulock 

The South Breaker Harriet Prescott Spofford 

The Snow Storm " Christopher North " 

The King of the Peak Allan Cunningham 

VIII.-MYSTERY. 

The Ghost W. D. O'Connor 

The Fonr-Fiftcen Express Amelia B. Edwards 

The Signal Man Dickens 

The Haunted Shin Cunningham 

A Raft that no Man Made Robt. T. S. Lowell 

The Birthmark Hawthorne 

IX.— COMEDY. 

Barney O'Reirdon, the Navigator Lover 

Bluebeard's Ghost Thackeray 

The Picnic Party .' Horace Smith 

Johnny Darbyshire William Howitt 

The Box Tunnel Reade 



X.— CHILDHOOD. 

A Dog of Flanders Ouida 

The King of the Golden River Ruskin 

The Lady of Shalott Miss Phelpa 

Majorie Fleming Dr. John Broun 

The Lost Child Henry Kin gsley 

A Child's Dream of a Star Dickena 



XL-HEROISM. 

Little Briggs and I Fitz-Hugh Ludlow 

Ray Harriet Prescott Spofford 

Three November Days , B. F. Taj lor 

A Chance Child Isabella Mayo 

A Leaf in the Storm Ouida 



XH.— FORTUNE. 

The Gold Bug Poe 

The Fail y Finder Lover 

Murad the Unlucky Maria Edgeworth 

The Children cf the Public Hale 

The Three-fold Destiny ... Hawthorne 

XHL— NARRATIVE POEMS. 

The Deserted Village Goldsmith 

The Ancient Marin< r Coleridga 

The Prisoner of Chillon Byron 

Bingen on the Rhine Mrs. Norton 

The Sensitive Plant Shelley 

The Eve of St. Agnes Keats 

Paradise and the Peri : Moore 

The Raven Poe 

The Skeleton in Armor Longfellow 

Tarn O'Shaiiter Burns 

Horatius Macaulay 



XIV.- LYRICAL POEMS. 

Locksley Hall Tennyson 

My Lost Youth Longfellow 

Intimations of Immortality Wordsworth 

Ode to Happiness Lowell 

L' Allegro and II Penseroso Milton 

Elegy in a Country Churchyard Gray 

The Bridge of Sighs Hood 

The Bonnets of Bonnie Dundee Scott 

At Port Royal Whittier 

How they brought the Good News from Ghent to 

Aix Browning 

Ode on the Duke of Wellington Tennyson 

Commemoration Ode Lowell 

And many other poems. 

XV.— MINOR POEMS. 

The Chambered Nautilus Holmes 

The Children's Hour Longfellow 

The Courtin 1 LoweU 

Evelyn Hope Browning 

Highland Mary Burns 

Kubla Khan Coleridge 

My Child Pierpont 

My Psalm Whittier 

And numerous other poems. 

XVI.-AUTHORS. 

Containing Brief Biographies of all the Authors from 
whose writings the fifteen preceding volumes of " Little 
Classics M have been taken. With complete index. 



16 vols. 32mo. Tastefully bound. Price, Cloth, $1.00 each ; Half Calf, $2.50. 

JAMES R. OSGOOD & Co., Boston. 



THE VEST-POCKET SERIES. 



These miniature volumes are of the same general order with the "Little Classics," 
which have proved so universally popular, but smaller every way, except in type. Then 
typographical beauty, fine paper, tasteful binding, dainty size, and, yet more, the sterling and. 
popular character of their contents, have gained for them a general welcome. 

Vol. 1. Snow-Bound. By J. G. Wihttier. 

2. Evangeline, By H. W. Longfellow. 

3. Power, Wealth, Illusions. By R. W. Emerson. 

4. Culture, Behavior, Beauty. By R. w. Emerson. 

5. The Courtship of Miles Standish. By H. W. Longfellow. 

6. Enoch Arden. By Alfred Tennyson. 

7. Nathaniel Hawthorne. By James t. Fields. 

8. A Day's Pleasure. By w. r>. Howells. 

9. The Vision of Sir Launfal. By J. R. Lowell. 

10. A Christmas Carol. By Charles Dickens. 

11. Lady G-eraldine's Courtship. By Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 

12. The Deserted Village, and The Traveller. By Oliver Goldsmith. 

13. Kab and his Friends, and Marjorie Fleming. By Dr. John Brown. 

14. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. By S. T. Coleridge. 

15. Barry Cornwall and his Friends. By James t. Fields. 

(OTHER VOLUMES IN PREPARATION.) 

ALL, EXCEPT VOLS. 3 AND 4, ILLUSTRATED. TASTEFULLY BOUND IN CLOTH. 

PRICE, 50 CENTS EACH. 



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email, daintv. sightly, and— rarest quality of small books— legible. The type is as large as the largest used in the 
'Christian Union,' and yet, by an excusable disregard of the traditional width of margin, each little ' page contains 
a great deal of reading-matter. We hope the series will be enlarged as long as good material exists with which to 
extend it. Generally a book is companionable in exact ratio with its unobtrusiveness, and the faculty it has for 
being always with us. A traveler without trunk or valise might carry a dozen of these little books without disar- 
rangTng his pockets, and be sure of that literary enjoyment which the stores of train-boy or railway-station news- 
agent never afford."— The Christian Union. 

" For pocket vohimes. to be carried about on journeys and read by snatches, to be taken to the country or sea- 
shore in summer, or to be read by the fireside in winter, these little books satisfy all the requirements of convenient 
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"The 'Vest-Pocket Series' is a most skillfully contrived and neatly arranged plan for bringing the best prose 
and verse into the reach of all readers. That it will succeed is as certain as that it ought to succeed, and the spread 
of our best literature is a missionary work than which no other whatever is more important. By such publications 
as these theOsgoods are doing a greater benefit to the country than can be calculated." — Hartford Courant. 

" These tiny books are not made by means of fine type and flimsy paper. The paper is heavy and firm, and the 
tvpe is wonderfully clear and legible. In fact, it looks large. These beautiful little books must be accorded rank as 
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" The most attractive of all the new books of the season." — Louisville Courier-Journal. 

" We have rarely seen anything more exquisite in the shape of miniature editions of authors than the 'Vest- 
Pocket Series.'' "—New York Evening Mail. 

"Volumes of such dainty shape that one might suppose them ordered for the inhabitants of Lilliput. Queen 
Mab could be fancied wisely perusing such fairy-like tomes, as she lazily lounges in a white lily's hollow." — Chicago 
Tribune. 

JAMES R. OSGOOD & Co., Boston. 



THE SAUNTERER'S SERIES. 



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By Charles Dudley Warner, 
"My Summer in a Garden." 



Sauntevings. 
author of 

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of the season. The observation, the homely philosophy, 
the quiet humor, the mellowness, which made ' My Sum- 
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A Chance 

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Acquaintance. By W. D. 

$1.50. 

" One can hardly overpraise the charm and grace with 
which Mr. Howells has invested the ' Acquaintance, 1 and 
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he is an artist in his description of scenery." — Boston 
Advertiser. 

Their Wedding Journey. By W. D. 

Howells. $1.50. 

"The simple summer journey of a married couple, by 
the common-place routes of river and rail, and with such 
unpoetical stages as New York, Albany, Rochester, 
Buffalo, Montreal, becomes in this chronicle an idyl, n 
poem, a royal progress through an enchanted land.* 1 — 
Buffalo Courier. 

The Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table. By 
Oliver Wendell Holmes. $1.50. 

" The Autocrat " is one of the few books that, arc known 
and enjoyed wherever the English language is read. It 
is deliciously unique. 

Among the Isles of Shoals. Bv Celia Thax- 
ter. Illustrated by H. Fenri. $1.50. 
"This little book, so dainty in its typography and 
illustrations, is a sort of poem ; and yet it is so accurately 
descriptive that the visitor to these enchanting, if not 
enchanted, isles will need no other guide. But whether 
the traveler goes to these isles or not, if he has this little 
volume in his pocket, wherever he is, he will have a most 
charming companion.''— Harford Courant, 

Poems. By W. D. Howells. $1.50. 
i "The subtle, elusive charm that make his prose ineffa- 
bly delicious is here too.— the tenderness of feeling, the 
play of humor, the colorful beauty, the sad sweetness. 
There are nearly half a hundred poems in the dainty 
volume, of all lengths, several of them sketches of stories 
in which Mr. Howells' genius serves admirably." — If. Y. 
Evening Mail 

Exotics. Poems translated from the German, 

French, Latin, and Persian. By J. F. C. 

andL. C. $1.25. 

"The 'Exotics' make a charming collection, and 

touch all moods of fancy, thought, and love. The wise 

and bright preface tells what a translation should be." — 

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Hap-Hazard. By Kate Field. $1.50. 

" Hap-hazard it may be in topic, but not in treatment. 
Kate Field writes always with vivacity, sprightliness, and 
entertainment. Her lively sketches are chapters of per- 
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and spirit which are charming." — Albany Journal. 



One Summer. By Blanche Willis Howard. 
$1.50. 

"It is one of those fresh and breezy love stories one 
meets with but twice or thrice in a lifetime. Altogether, 
for charm of style, simplicity of diction, and pie isantnes-t 
of plot, the book is quite inimitable." — Rocky Mountain 
News. 

"One of the best of summer novels. If we are not 
mistaken, it will be borrowed and lent around, and 
laughed over, and possibly cried over, and hugely en- 
joyed hy all who get a chance to read it." — T/'-e Liberal 
Christian. 

Ten Days in Spain. By Kate Field. $1.50. 

"A volume which, beyond its vivacious and sparkling 
description of a journey, contains shrewd observations 
on men, manners, an 1 the signs of the times, and more 
valuable information elicited from the experieni 
"ten days,' than many wise men derive from the studies 
and out-looks of ten years." — I'rovidence Journal. 

Whip and Spur. By Col. Geo. E. Waring, 
Jr. $1.25. 

"Here is a style which you cannot precisely call liter- 
ary, and which yet has in it the best literary qualities — 
freshness, directness, pure and clean-cut English, with a 
of form and self-restraint and a natural instinct for 
a telling phrase. The whole book is charged with oxygen, 
and the style carries you on, with a sort of easy cavalry 
gait, from beginning to end. Col. Waring's horses are 
like Dr. John Brown's dog-, — Bab and his friends, f r 
instance.— g-nuine and half human creature.-. The 
career of each seems as individual and interesting as 
that of a child."— T. W. IIiGGlNsor. 

Baddeck, and that Sort of Thing. Bv 
Charles Dudley Warner. $1 . 00. 

"For perfect drollery of situation and sentiment, and 
the daintiest surprises of fun, and for the traveler's 
good-humored perception of absurdities, told with spright- 
liness and the most charming abandon, we account Mr. 
"Warner's description of his pilgrimage to Baddeck ;'s one 
of the most wittily playful things in our literature since 
the 'Sentimental Journey.' "—Christian Union. 

South-Sea Idyls. By Charles Warren Stod- 
dard. $1.50. 

" Of all the dreamlands in the world this author has 
cho-cn the dreamiest. He has made himself the laureate 
of the Pacific Islands,— the first interpreter, whether in 
prose or verse, of that lazy charm, that very perfection 
of lotus-eating, that characterizes life in Tahiti and the 
Hawaiian group, and the other 'summer Isles of Eden' 
that lie iu the great Western ocean." — Appletons' Journal. 

Gunnar: A Norse Romance. By E H 
Boyeson. $1.50. 

" The scene is almost entirely among the Norwegian 
peasants ; the plot is the love of a tenant's son for the 
daughter of u rich peasant land-owner, and relates to 
Gunnar's growth from a dreamy boyhood to the manhood 
of a young painter, who comes back from Christiania 
crowned with academic glories, and weds his faithful 
Ragnhild. The landscapes and customs of Norway are 
constantly sketched, and the glamour of the folk lore is 
softly shed over nil from a memory stored full of the wild 
superstitions of the North." — Atlantic Monthly. 



JAMES R. OSGOOD & Co., Boston. 






NEW ENGLAND: 

A Guide to the Chief Cities and Popular Kesorts of New England, and to its Scenery and 
Historic attractions; with the Western and Northern Borders, from New York to. 
Quebec. With G Maps and 11 Plans. Third Edition. $^.00. 

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in Osgood's ' New England : a Handbook for Travellers. 1 In form, the work follows, in the minutest details, the 
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is prepared with great care and thoroughness, and is the best American guide-book that has yet appeared." — 'The 
Independent. 

"The book is compact and crowded. . . . The information in regard to the different localities is full, 
minute, and exact." — Boston Transcript. 



THE MIDDLE STATES: 

(New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Delaware, Maryland, and District of Columbia.) 
With the Northern Border from Niagara to Montreal. Revised Edition for 1876, with 
Supplement and Map describing the Centennial Buildings. With 7 Maps and 15 Plans. $2.00 

" No previous manual is so copious or so exact in its treatment or can be consulted to so great advantage by th<» 
tourist in the Middle States as a trustworthy guide." — Neio York Tribune. 

"He who visits the Hudson, Niagara, Trenton, or any other of the charming resorts described, will find a gain 
of comfort in taking this guide-book as his guide, philosopher, and friend." — Boston Post. 



THE MARITIME PROVINCES: 

A Guide to the Chief Cities, Coasts, and Islands of the Maritime Provinces of Canada: with 
the Gulf and River St. Lawrence ; also Newfoundland and the Labrador Coast. With 
Maps and Plans. $2.00. 

" By its intrinsic value, copiousness of information, and impartiality, is likely to take the place of all other 
guides or hand-books of Canada which we know of." — Quebec Chronicle. 

" A book which no one who makes an expedition to these regions can wisely do without." — Boston Advertiser. 



THE WHITE MOUNTAINS: 

A Guide to the Peaks, Passes, and Ravines of the White Mountains of New Hampshire, and 
to the adjacent Railroads, Highways, and Villages; with the Lakes and Mountains of 
Western Maine ; also Lake Winnepesaukee, and the Upper Connecticut Valley. With 
Maps of the White and Franconia Mountains, Western Maine, and the Lake-Country of 
New Hampshire ; and Panoramas of the views from Mt. Washington, Mt. Kiarsarge, 
Mt Pleasant (Maine), Mt. Prospect (Plymouth), Mt. Hayes, and Jefferson Hill. $2.00. 

" Undoubtedly the most complete and satisfactory White Mountain Guide yet published." — Boston Courier. 



EUROPEAN GUIDE-BOOKS. 

Messrs. James R. Osgood & Co. are the American publishers of the European Guide 
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of their information, and the peculiar excellence and beauty of their Maps. 

BELGIUM and HOLLAND, with 6 Maps and 18 

Plans - $175 

THE RHINE from ROTTERDAM to CON- 
STANCE, with 15 Maps and 1(5 Plans 2 00 

NORTHERN GERMANY, with 11 Maps and 27 

Plans 2 00 

SOUTHERN GERMANY and AUSTRIA, includ- 
ing the EASTERN ALPS (the Tyrol. Styria, 
Carinthia, etc."), with 28 Maps and" 27 Plans. . . 3 50 

PARIS and NORTHERN FRANCE, with 2 Maps 

and 9 Plans 2 00 

NORTH ITALY, as far as LEGHORN, FLOR- 
ENCE, and ANCONA, and the ISLAND OP 
CORSICA, with Maps and 27 Tlans 2 50 



CENTRAL ITALY and ROME, with 7 Maps, 12 

Plans, and 1 Panorama of Rome $2 50 

SOUTHERN ITALY, SICILY, and Excursions to 
the LIPARI ISLANDS, TUNIS (Carthage). 
SARDINIA, MALTA, and ATHENS, with 7 
Maps and 8 Plans 2 00 

SWITZERLAND and the adjacent portions of 
ITALY. SAVOY, and the TYROL, with 22 
Maps, 10 Plans, and 7 Panoramas 2 50 

PALESTINE and SYRIA, with 18 Maps, 43 

Plans, a Panorama of Jerusalem, and 10 Views 7 5U 

THE TRAVELLERS MANUAL OF CONVER- 
SATION, in English, German, French, and 
Italian 



1 25 



JAMES R. OSGOOD & Co., Boston. 



Centennial Edition.] 

ir 1 



[Price One Dollar. 




i 



THE COMPLETE 



Poetical Works 



OF 



Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



WITH NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS. 







BOSTON: 

JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY, 

Late Ticknob & Fields, and Fields, Osgood & Co. 

1876. 




WHITTIEE'S POEMS. 

CENTENNIAL EDITION-ILLUSTRATED. 



The Poetical Works of John Greenxeaf Whittier have been 
published in uniform style with this Centennial Edition of Mr. 
Tennyson's Poems. The volume contains all the Poems embraced 
in the volumes Mr. Whittier has yet published, and is embellished 
with many Illustrations. 

" What great love has silently grown up all over our country for the man who has used his 
gift of song so nobly, so faithfully, and so marvelously ! It has answered every need. It 
has been a sharp and swift sword of justice to smite persistent wrong- doers, a cry of warning, 
a trumpet-call to battle, a bugle-note of victory. It has given faith to the doubting, courage 
to the timid, hope to the despairing, comfort to the sorrowful, balm to the wounded. It has 
kept young hearts pure, and-filled them with ardor and with gladness." — Boston Advertiser . 

The Centennial Edition of Whittier's Poems is in one volume 
octavo, Paper covers, $1.00. 



TENNYSON'S POEMS. 

CENTENNIAL EDITION-ILLUSTRATED. 



The Complete Poetical Works of Alfred Tennyson are issued in uni- 
form style with the Centennial Editions of Longfellow and Whittier. 
The Laureate's admirers are as numerous in America as in England ; his 
works are an important element in the literary treasures of two continents. 

This popular Centennial Edition of Tennyson will help to familiarize the 
works of one of the greatest and noblest of poets. 

One Volume, octavo. Price, in Paper covers, $1.00. 



JAMES R. OSGOOD & Co., Publishers, Boston. 





WORKS OF HENRY WADSWQRTH LONGFELLOW, 



"No living writer surpasses and few en, nal him in felicity of language and harmony of versification. Hia 
fancy is delicate and rainbow hued : ami his power to transmute the simple and the common-place, the homely, the 
prosaic, into the beautiful, is almost magical. Indeed, his perception of, and power to eliminate, that which is 
beautiful in all things is his great characteristic; and whether the subject of his verse be natural sijzht^ and sounds, 
or living human kind and other created tilings or dusky medieval legends, or historic incidents of later days, he 
has the rare faculty of being able to single out the grain of poetic beauty which is covered up by the overlying mass 
of unlovolinesi, and to inve-t it with a charm and a gracefulness all his own." — The Christian Intelligencer, (N. Y.) 

POEMS. 

Cambridge Edition. 4 vols. 16mo, .$10.00. 

The Same. 2 vols. 12mo, Portrait and 3 Plates, $8.00. 

Blue and Gold Edition. 2 vols., Portrait. $3.00. 
Cabinet Edition. 2 vols., Portrait. $4.00. 
Diamond Edition. $1.50. 

Ited-Iitne Edition. Portrait and 12 Illustrations, $4.50. 
House nold Edition, lvol. 12mo, #2.00. 
Illustrated Edition. 8vo, Portrait, and 800 Choice Illustrations, $10.00; Half Calf, $14.00: Morocco, $18.00. 

PROSE WORKS. 

Cambridge Edition. 8 vols, lfirao, $7.50. 

Blue and Gold Edition. 2 vote., #8.00. 

Cabinet Edition. 2 vols., $-l.oo. 

Translation oi* Dante's Diviua Commcdia. S vote. Royal octavo, full gdt, f6.00 a voluma. 

The SAME. 3 vols. 16mo, $0.00. 

The Same. 1 vol. ISruo, $8 00. 

Cliristus : A Mystery. Comprising The Divine Tragedy, Tlu <h>Urn Legend, and The Xew England 

Tragedies, 3 vols. l2mo, $4.5u. 

The Same. 8 vols, in one, 8vo, $3.00. 

Red-Line Edition. 10 Illustrations, $3.50. 
Cabinet Edition. $2.00 
Blue and Gold Edition. $1.50. 
Diamond Edition. $1.00. 

SEPARATE WORKS. 

THE WAYSIDE INN, and other Poems, fl.50, 
THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. $1.50. 

The Same. Large paper edition, $2.50. 

EVANGELINE. $1.25. 

The Same. Illustrated Edition, $3.00. 

The Same. Vest-Pocket Edition. Illustrations, 50 cents. 

HYPERION. $1.50. 
OUTRE-MER. $1.50. 
KAVANAGH. $1.25. 

THE NEW ENGLAND TRAGEDIES. $1.50. 
THE DIVINE TRAGEDY. $1.50. 

The Same. Holiday Edition. Full gilt, $3.00. 

THREE BOOKS OF SONG. $2.(0. 
HOUSEHOLD POEMS. Illustrated, Portrait, §1.00. 
FLOWER-DE-LUCE, Illustrated, $2.50. 
AFTERMATH. $1.50. 

BUILDING OF THE SHIP. Illustrated, $3.00. 
THE HANGING OF THE CRANE. Full gilt, $5.00. 

The Same. 12 Illustrations, $1.50. 

THE MASQUE OF PANDORA, and other Poems. $1.50. 
THE POETS AND POETRY OF EUROPE. $6.00. 

" This poet is the traveler of the wide realm of thought, the world of imagination. He has touched at all the 
sunny Mediterranean and Adriatic ports; all the French and Spanish coasts are known to him ; he brings wealth 
from the froz.en Scandinavian lands as rare as the ivory set in the beryl of the immemorial icebergs ; he gathers 
flotsam from the bays and inlets, the lakes and rivers, of home. Full of the world, he transmutes his large exj*>- 
rience and far-brought learning into the poems we know with a secure and patient art." — W. D. Howells in North 
American Revieio. 

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